Editor

“On a dark and turbulent night”,

I witness street lamps skinny as pens.

And assume shooting stars

Are fractions of skies

That run out of ink.

The moon is as pale as draft paper –

A sheet of wooden spirit in essence

Prospecting for expressions –

In the absence of words

I pray. More novel-less nights

Beckons. The key board of typewriters

Are made of small puddles of rain – In

This arid mind I wait for

Fictional monsoons and composing

Myself and my water, for

I desire to bloom, also perish

As part of the land, also extract of the evening.

Last spring I wrote:

Flowers are my most sincere

Memoir for March.

Yet only to receive a rejection slip

Due to unorganized vitality.

I think of the possibility

To rewrite the sky, dust, and pain,

And reduce my cursive dreams –

On these foggy nights I discover

That my lungs are clean;

And my carefully-worded dismay:

Representing moony secrets inexpressively.

One night I realize name

Is a border: intangibly threating

As darkness. That’s how

I learn untitled poems are infinite.

And from here I take on my sleep

Which undergo countless

Comments, revisions, and awakenings.

Workshopped nightmares:

Roots howl in the reduction of light.

Patiently I sob in the trace of

Night’s embrace – A rejected play.

And here I stand

Outside of the world’s house

Waiting for my life

To get published.

2021.10.24