I have to stop sending my money off to writing contests for other people to win. I should just go down to the Shell station at San Mateo & Central and hand it over to the men who gather there between buses to ask for change. Surprise & delight them with a 10 dollar bill. Let that be how I write poetry.
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I didn’t learn the secrets I was born to. How warm soil must be in the spring and how dry before the first shovel thrust or plow turn. Else damage. Compacted grains and no allowance for the roots pushing between. As if words were all outside of poems. As if silence cuts precisely-edged entrances through aurora borealis and milk glass. It is not gravitational flux. Perhaps it is the water’s movement across oceans and through soil that pulls the moon across the sky.
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