February 3, 1999: Unconfident recognitions
When you start writing like a poet—hang it up, toss it away. Ain’t my thing! I enjoy the essence of the unknown—the sudden inner explosion of yesterday, much different, totally unexpected. Then, I quietly sit back and read over what’s been written. Dip my pen into the carved glass well—tap, tap, tap… “It’s not good enough.” The disappointment is whispered. “Anyone can do what I do.” Then I stop writing—silence slips into the room—visitors, spirit guides and keepers, travelers who’ve died…and plain ole 225 pound me.

Why do so many poets write about lost tears? They often admit the crying has dried—rivers that once were, stones lay in mud crusted lost luck. A poet reflects like a mirror—the view, an open window. The poet’s tears are his ink, a mixture that never dries—for her words are what people keep. To paint, to relive, to cherish, to release as well as build upon—to dream, to highlight, to forge, to capture then deliver. Why do…so many poets write about lost tears? Wine stained, pink lemonade, salty paintings of what we expect when noticed. The mud crusted white rivers, which are now dry. Here I sit…placing ink on blizzard white—a mixture that never dries, for each word represents self…a self that others can hold.