I bet Shakespeare was bad in bed.
I bet Henry Miller began with a cigarette
and ended leaving to write facts,
the vase empty of flowers.
Allen Ginsberg probably annihilated in
the fucking, chanting run-ons, then passed out in another
realm of the subconscious.
Steinbeck, meh, I feel nothing about that.
Hemingway? Far from ordinary but so many lovers
it cheapened his passion.
I think about these things. I fall in love
with writers. I do. I have a little black book
between my mattresses filled with
photographs of words. Just words.
Fonts say a lot unless the word hurts me
in the chest or, some, shocking my entire being.
Each memory, each dream and nightmare, every
conversation, all the prose, all the ideas,
all the distilled afternoons alone, all the writers I’ve read-
all have page numbers.
And some of you fellow writers -I see you in images and color;
I have a section divided just for you in my little book.
Like I see…
Bjorn Rudberg’s Writings in a blue-gray binding–a rhythm to the passion that peeks just over the binding stitch
Manic Daily in neatly cut and strewn about thoughts that connect like molecular science
Heartstring Eulogies in a warm bath of Sundays, stark white tiles, and candles within the dark
MLewisRedford in a clear-cut mandala of impressions wedded to facts
Marcello’s Revenge in gray-scale photos of tall empty buildings that watch the lives in gardens and gutters, a blunt force that doesn’t forget the beauty
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia in a kaleidoscope of objects coming to life in pixels of words–snippets that change the very color of what you thought you saw
and I see
Magaly Guerrero in a novel of fine juxtapositions; a mind behind the words that never stops-a speedy wisdom, sharp eye, and thought-out tongue
Verse Escape in, oddly, tulips. She is the color red that reaps open the yellow dandelions and blows the seeds not into wishes but into the afterglow of the everyday
Whimsy Gizmo’s Blog in Bob Dylan’s reflexes, his spreadsheets to a history of poem
Oran’s Well I see in song, in an all-too familiar acoustic string that sharpens and hones lyrics that never quite sleep, that never stop figuring and connecting points, all on an album untitled and unreleased