solitary tea

my words haven't died they've just been tossed out with the dirty diapers

Mixed on low for 3-5,

Slid into the oven,

My words, my thinking

High schoolCollege

Now headaches

And a laughing boy named bliss

And my poetry 

left behind 

years ago. 

I realized it's been 10 years since Nelson's writer's Paris. 10 years of this blog!

Hey, wait up--

I used to like the fire poetry made me feel. 

the list (where I described how I want my life to be) felt like you. 

I wanted 'me the poet' to be my eyes, my brain.

I loved to feel real 

in the way I do with a pencil and notebook.

poetry, could we hang out on my kitchen floor, even if we're exhausted, like we hung out eating lunch in school hallways, backs against lockers.

we hung out in my son's hospital, we had to.

will we hang out through deployments and meet again over solitary tea, just me in the evenings, just me and you, and will it feel real and fiery and 

like I have new glasses?

Sharper, vivid. will i see blurry things clearly, see clear things that'd gone unnoticed,

and notice the details of this peace lily and my marriage, and the arch of my life 

in a way we both want?

give the words life, give me... ?

Poetry is not what I want to fill me up. 

I'm hungry for presence, for rich life,

not just the beautiful words describing one

But they do change my present, those beautiful words,

and they're delicious when shared.

I guess I want substance intwined with art

?