// Write All Of It //

I believe if we want to remain prolific, if we want to maintain flow, if we want to continue to be nimble, a writer must write all of what it means to write. Just like with any kind of life, the struggles we go through to create are part of the creation itself.
Birth, death, ecstasy, curiosity, brutality, resurrection.
So much of what we have to do is sheer survival of the word, of the vision, of the expression.
All the ways the words are meant to be formed, the way they are forming within us, it is so often a terrible mess.
It can be very hard to break through. And the brave ones keep going. The brave ones write all of it.
So write all of it.
Even as many people come and go,
as they adore you and forget you,
as they question you and open you
and move on.
As they stay.
Do not worry about them.
You are still here.
You are still this heavy beautiful collection of dark skies
stealing catches of light through trees.

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// the bones of the artist //

I love that you do not shy away from your humanity,
divinity,
possibility,
uncertainty.

I love that you move into them, inhabit them, crawl inside them and open up your soul before them, allow yourself to become what they are in full tragic erotic chaotic bloom.

It takes my breath away to know you let them fill you, emerge from you, surround you,
have you,
have you,
have you.

And in that holy space, in the infinite spread of that rarely glimpsed suspension, you are as still as you are in motion. You become the flesh and blood of every creature ever born into this madness.

You allow their wisdom to touch you everywhere.

When I see you, I feel all of this written across the sky inside my heavenly earthen body.

Because I know in the secret chambers of my wild heart that which you know in yours:

that if it is not tearing at the bones, it is not poetry. 

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