Every Day I Write a Poem

Some days the poems are short. A line or two. Words and cadence. Some days they go on and on about things I don’t really understand, like math. I’m in the midst of reading Susan Jacoby’s new book about Robert Ingersoll, so the other day my morning poem was about him.

I don’t edit these poems. They spring fully formed like Athena from the head of Zeus, though typically not as lovely.

This is one I wrote a week ago:

If we took all the cars that were ever built to
Run on gasoline over highways paved in
Greenback dollars and stood them end to end
They would stretch no farther than our pitiful
Poor imaginations.
What is becomes what has always been
We are at war with East Asia
And forever it was so
Just as we are meant to ride in our boxes
Down the hillside of our demise let us pray then for
Ambulances powered by rainbows to gather at the bottom
And whisk us away when we crash.

The beauty of these morning poems is they take only minutes to write, and at the end of the month I have a whole slew of them.

Unlike blog posts.

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