Thoughts on Getting Published

For VMI and the rest of the writers in my life:

I read the words you wrote and thought, "more people need to read this." It's the highest compliment and the most cliched conundrum. If poetry is written and only two people hear it fall on the page, is it still important?

When I spoke of you tonight, you weren't there so you couldn't hear me. Some of you are miles and miles away, and some of you live around the corner. Some of you are dead. But were my words about you untrue or unreal? Didn't they exist, like fireworks, alive for those few vibrant seconds before they faded into the night sky?

I know that when I decided to be better I didn't even hear myself. Doesn't mean I wasn't exploding in big reds and greens against the big black backdrop. It doesn't mean it wasn't loud or didn't happen.

Maybe Heaven for us will be one big script reading. Perhaps then we'll get the feedback and validation that all these rockets require. Or maybe we'll just be dead and someone will stumble upon our words and nod knowingly. Or at least use them as kindling to light some fuse or maybe just wipe their ass.

Either way, I'm happy we're all matching up these thoughts with words and grateful for the moments we take it a step further and make art. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that's what keeps this big hot ball going.

Dear Me,

If I knew what to write, I would right it. If I could, I would tell you how I've replayed the tape and identified all the instances where I went wrong. And once I'd found them, I'd want someone to judge them. Is there at tribunal? Because if there was one, I would prostrate myself before it and ask for its forgiveness.

How long do I have to be sorry for squandering you?

I read somewhere that when someone's wounded, the first order of business is to stop the bleeding. So I found a tourniquet for you. I can't be sorry for that.

But what's next, exactly? Explain to me, please, how I go about finding an experienced surgeon to suture up the holes when there's this big fleshy scar in his way? Who do I tell all the details to? Who do I direct how to save you? Who judges you now when I've deemed everyone else unworthy?

My mom explained how white knights are always in demand but she's pretty sure we don't need one anymore. She said it in a nice way, and I agreed.

I just wish I could tell you how I went wrong and why. I would make it all better for you and I would save us. And if I couldn't do that, I would tell you to forgive me and give us clearance to begin again. But you'd have to mean it, because I'm running out of patience. Aren't you?

Love,
Me

Her Thing

She was carrying her thing. Which made it cumbersome when he reached his hand out and said, "nice to see you again" because her hands were full. She bobbled a bit, because her thing was heavy and she didn't want set it down without care.

Not just to take his hand. She'd learned too much to do that.

So she teetered her thing on the edge of her hip, juggled the notion of full disclosure, and chose thinly veiled sharing instead. Maybe he was taken aback or put off. But she had little time for gratuitous prepositions, so she juggled her thing and managed to say hello, and if he was looking for anything more than that....well, then he would have to wait until she was just a little bit more balanced.

She said, "you don't even know me."

So he said, "Nice to meet you."

And she said, "Welcome to my blog."