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CHOSEN WORDS
There are times when I pause and wonder howthe words that are my stock in trade view me.Do I empower them, give them a meaningthat they would lack without my imposedcontext, or do I imprison them, locking themon a page or screen, forced into proximitywith others they never would have chosen.What would they say to…
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WITH PEN AND PRAYER
It all came crashing down. That was the ending he had written, so that was how it would end. And this time he actually liked the ending which was not often the case. He could not remember a time when the ending came to him so naturally. And the ending was always the hardest part.…
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ON OCCASION
There is a hidden dangerin being a poet that most people,other than fellow poets and some writers,have a problem grasping.Once you let it be knownthat you are a poet eventuallysomeone will ask you to writea poem for a special day or person.When this happens I gently tell themthat I cannot write occasional poetry.Inevitably they ask…
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A THOUSAND
There is a far less obviousbut very important reasonto be a poet, a bit less so, but stilla good reason to write prose.Perhaps you will say that myreason is wholly and solelyaudience specific, and youwould be at least partially right,for if, like me, you are inthe process of losing your sight,or have already done so,…
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UNDERWOOD
When I stood in Hemingway’s studyin Key West, I was certain thatthe old Underwood portable probably hadat least one if not moregreat novels in it, and Iwould gladly be the one to unburden it.Then I paused to wonderwouldn’t Ernest have taken hisUnderwood portable with himto Ketchum, Idaho, and how couldMary be sure none of his…
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OH MY GOD
On the subway there was a placardtelling me and all of the other riderswhere we could find God, promisingsalvation if we made the search. Someone had scrawled beneath it“God is ded.” I was left to wonderif the writer also thought that Godwas now somehow deceased, and how you would knowif that were really the case,…
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HE WAS
He was a writer. That is what he told people who asked what he did. Although he said it was what, no who he was. He said he wanted to be the sort of person that Stalin feared, a man of ideas, maybe someday, in an Alexieian world, charged with a crime of holding an…
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PAPER CUTS
Paper is at once boththe cruelest invention a writermay have stumbled acrossand also her salvation. The blank page invites,often demands the penand is unjudging, yet the poetmay change or deletebut the paper retains the originaland throws it back in his face. The computer, many say,changed all of that, backspaceor highlight and delete andthat mistake, misuse,…
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YOU, REALLY
Would it surprise you to learnthat like most writers, Ihave spent more than a littleguilty time trying to imaginewhat you look like, what you knowyou should be doingwhile you are reading this poem. And I do wish I couild seeyour face as you read it, knowingit is a conversation whereyou want to speak, to tell…
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AFTERLIFE
In the farthest reachesof the afterlife, the old mengather each day, althoughday and night are meaninglessto them, just assignedfor purposes of the writer. The Buddha recites sutrashoping the others willbe in the moment with him,while Hillel smiles, standson one foot and dreamsof a lean pastrami on ryewith a slice of half sour. Christ muses on…
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an old writer and his words 