a friend asked me how do i write poetry. like, how do i willfully share it? i start by melting my former lovers and lives and melding them, one by one, until the links for a chain around the commas. i then began to tell her that you know when its time to. that the second hands will move in a way that will coincide with the flutters, and others will know, by reading, that you were alive.
the real answer? you have to be willing to stand on the precipice of death everytime. you have to want and be able to put your body on the line each time a word is born. you can see the length of a person with their longhand. you have to sacrifice your veins anytime you scribe near the margins. and once awhile some shit will catch fire and leave you reaching for water or rosaries, whatever is nearest.
you’ll pray for rain or starvation, for women or weed, a cross or a funeral. you gotta stand with the razor under tongue, and speak your truth until you and the red match. it will not be perfect, no. nor will it be what you wanted. however, what you need will be curdling amongst the apparations in your fingers that lead you to that nexus, that next shit that is the real of your being. and that, that will be your poetry.