When you get really pulled in
sometimes after writing a poem
it’s like that spell after sex
when you become aware again
that all the world is still there
rushing back in on you, in that moment,
but actually, since poetry is done alone
a closer metaphor would be more like right after…
no, I don’t think I want to draw that comparison


365 days ago I embarked on an endeavor to post 365 days of poetry over the next 365 days. That’s done now. The days are done. The 365 of them. There’s more shit to post though, always more dribbling out of me like blood from the ears of a stroke victim. Actually, I don’t know if ear bleeding is a symptom of strokes. Don’t take my word on it. It’s a bad comparison, and I’ve got millions of ’em.


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