I have high expectations for poetry to spark some light, to wake me up enough so I can sleep at night. Then to feed me and others. To reveal subtle secrets and bothers. To scour out the remains of the day. To be grey. The pen, paper, growl, the games, the time, the noticing of my scowl are all parts of the same approach. The fight for fetching far flung alliterative comparisons begins as eyes open and continues like longitudinal lines throughout my waking hours. And like those perpetually bending lines, my rhymes rarely end. My brain taps out multi-verses of multiverses and only stop once the weight of the day snaps my lids shut. Honestly, I usually have had enough by noon. Or the good stuff has run out sooner. And even though some of my process is compulsive and explosive and sometimes just for show- the only thing that really stops this deal, is when my hand feels, without doubt, that I am giving the world one more counterfeit to wonder about and convinces my pen to stop and say 'no'.

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