mama once commented on my choice of
words
the way i compose a poem like the way i
make a garden
of vegetables, potatoes here,
chili there, onions on this line
grouped and measured exactly
one from the other
for no other reason that they all
must not only be healthy but must also
look good to our neighbors
as though if well aligned and
categorized as to their kind and variety
and color and texture perhaps
then like a poem they may sound
good and make you feel good
i told mama, i don't know how to do it
i am not good at distances, and i do not
know how things can look that good
she cannot force me to do things that
i can't
but deep within me i can. I can easily
measure lengths, and sizes, and can
classify colors
i am good at numbers too, but
deep within, which i did not tell her,
i like
spontaneity, i like beauty in its
mangled self.
i like scattered things, bursting
exploding firecrackers, i like falling leaves
and spitting snakes, and water falls and
drizzles of rain
i like to hear and inner sound that comes from
nobody but just me, or perhaps who knows from
an Unknown, an X, a Y, and a Z.
I listen, and then i write. No notions. No prescriptions.
I have something and i do not even know what it is.
It is making me move. It is also making me stay.
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