People, maybe including myself, tend to do things of which they are not exactly aware. No one wants to be in the situation in this picture, five days a week. That backup is actually about two miles long -- every day.

People write poetry without thinking -- they just write the best way they know how, and somehow expect poetry to come out of it. As if it is natural to them. They expect to be a poet without thinking about what they are doing with their art. I want to ask a poet, tell me how your work is advanced in comparison to what is being written, what are you discovering? What is your poetry about? What do you have to say? Are you actually stuck in traffic and don't know it?

My Days

My mind is bright as bumper chrome,
intensity few retinas can take.
My thoughts are loud, however reticent,
and tangible as stoplights in the sun.

However, days are highway lanes. My home
is blocked by smoggy traffic. Headlights break,
and maniacs can't stand magnificent
reflective brains, which, once cracked, are done.

I slow on curves to disinterest fate,
however, madmen smoke and fume and smash
with reckless speed, and the momentum, weight,
can easily claim an accidental crash.

There are no open roads. There is no joy
in driving fast. I am a backyard boy.

...... excerpt.....

Time past, candles were for the rich.

Now, the poor light candles to be rich.

Kissers, campers, castles with kings,

alters, grievers and gourmet kings

light candles with purpose at night.

Slimeballs too, burn the night.

........

Little itty bitty moon up there. After all, it is just you and the world.

Being bitten by ants or fleas? Sun in their eyes? Tearful joy at the wedding on the beach? Thoughts of their own time passing or that one love who got away?

A gloomy day in the suburbs. With Red Box, people can rent movies full of actors faking life and not talk to anyone, or get the movies mailed or sent via cable. Perfect.

A flea market in San Antonio. You like flea markets? Flea markets are odd shows of humanity. It is very much like watching humans in a fish bowl. What on earth are they so interested in? Is it part of the discovery need -- the endless need to discover, to search, explore, to gather objects to possess? All the things they buy end up back in the flea market or in the landfill, all used up, worn out, chewed on, broken, or maybe in some museum if rare or valuable. I bought a nice pair of Nikon binoculars. I need to know what is going on out there outside the fish bowl.

Discovery is always a great joy. We all want to discover something. Discovery is why people like art, why people enjoy making art. Any art is the art of discovery.

Today I discovered, when I was standing in the middle of an intersection of a two four-lane highway with my camera, stepping inbetween cars while I tried to get an angle before the light changed, that it didn't bother me if people thought it was strange that some guy was standing in the road with a camera. I felt like a kid, trying to capture something beautiful.

Where do you write? Here is my favorite place to write -- the kitchen table. The pen on the notebook is a Waterman fountain pen for which I paid $150 -- about 14 years ago. Also, I heard years ago, to write, just write the poem or story you would like to read. What you would like to read -- write it.