Waiting for the magic

and the line,

is something

I think I will never have to do

when my creativity is flowing

like a sewer

I must purge from my mind.

Then,

it stops

as if the people

no longer

have the need.

I clean

my apartment.

Then,

I go on a date

and nearly die

on the freeway.

I come home

and think about my books

carefully tucked in their shelves.

They’re like canned goods

I can eat

by candle-light

in a cabin,

deep

in the mountains.

It’s not so much the need

to get away

but to feed

my fire

and listen to the snow

outside

while turning

the page.

My spirit needs

pain

to gain

speed.

Once, a long time ago

I took risks

that shocked the most liberal

open-minded people, and they told me

“You’re not a risk taker.”

Could it be

we are all volcanoes

waiting to erupt

ugly

full of lava

and ash?

For me, I’ve had growing pains

for 35 years.

For some, it’ll take 35,000.

Once you unleash 10,000 nuclear bombs

you can never put the Genie back in the bottle.

I tell this to people

and they laugh at me.

My Aunt Jeanie had her funeral yesterday

and my dad got up and said,

“Be careful not to rub her urn, we don’t want Jeanie to escape.”

Everybody laughed.

It was a gutsy joke—

the only kind worth telling.