Thursday, August 3, 2017

I don't want to wait for the story to come to me. I want to meet it where it is. At the beach. In line at the market. Taking clothes out of the dryer. I like to listen to the lines as they come out a baby's mouth. Come from the man at the liquor store. Homeless woman on the corner. I like to sit in the sun writing in my little journal. The red one. One with the lotus on the cover. All the sounds I hear. The voices in the air. Voices in my head. Dreams from the night before. A story is always there. A song a thought a wish a question. A poem wants to be written. To be pulled from the sky and penned. A scream dares to be interpreted. Paraphrase a blowing leaf. Let's do the work, writers. All this listening to be done. All this noise all around. Waiting to come to life.

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