when I asked my grandfather what he would do differently
if he could go back and be 25 again
he said he would go out dancing,
dancing every night.
when I asked myself what I thought I’d say
when my grand daughter asked me the same question
I realized I never thought I’d live to be old;
my reflection once told me that writers die young
because they tell the truths of the world
and the world prefers her secrets kept.
evidently we both prefer to kill the messenger.

writers spend their time drinking coffee black
and using honey to smother their lovers in the beauty of illusion.
and like he said, he’d much rather twirl and sweat and appreciate
than to be like us,
the writers who spend too much time
enjoying disaster much more than organization.
than to be like us,
the writers who spend too much time living life on paper
rather than off.

he’s at the edge of the paper,
no longer limited by space but time
and I’m writing.
I’m here just beginning to write
with pen and the permanence,
unable to go back without scratches
on the page showing where I have been.
I guess I’d rather hope for the illusion and drift in bliss
than write with the clarity of a pointless journey.

and for the record sometimes I dance,
I dance all night
with pen and paper in my hand.
evidently we both prefer to dance with someone else
close in our arms.

evidently the writer never wished
to write alone

but we do.