Night Poetry

Most of my nights are spent on my couch, drinking a beer or two and devouring poetry books whole.  I linger over the same lines, trying to burn them into me.  I circle and star and underline.  I contemplate tattooing the words into my skin and then worry that I do not have skin enough for all the words I long to contain.

I drink in every passage about longing, absence, solitude, and loneliness.  Every broken-hearted misery is a reminder, a kinship.

I spend my nights with Nick Flynn, Sylvia Path, Rumi, and Gibran.  I listen to Patricia Smith slam down hard poetry on my tiny phone, rattling all of me.  Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti consume me like a wildfire.

I listen and listen, alive and wild.  They say to be a good writer it is necessary to be a good reader.  While that is likely true, I am not sure how one functions without these necessary words.

After days of havoc, this is my shelter.



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