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(February 3, 2009)

I

Second, I am a writer.
The ink in my veins doesn’t
die with passing moments-
only lays stagnant.
It waits for the well to come
swelling up, and flooding over-                                                                                                                         
it rests, stewing in a hidden place
and then the kettle hisses;
sharp streams of solid smoke-
steam vapor pouring forth from
cavernous rivers.                                                                                                                                                        Second, I am a writer.

II

Second I am a writer
because first, I am a child-
a child of something mysterious
but internal, eternal and warm.
I am a child of knowlege and
of something booming with greatness.
This I am first.

III

Finally, I am a lover.
Third, because the two before
are unshaken while love
is a fickle villain.
Finally, I am a lover-
I’ve reached for the stars and
kept them captive in ketchup bottles.
I’ve laughed when I should’ve been crying.
I’ve slept when I should’ve been running.
Third, I am a lover because
life is love and being loved-
“loving with a love that is more than love”
in this kingdom, you and me-
with all the stars that
can possibly be contained,
all the ink, all the tears, all the spitting
and dreaming and running-
all the stuff of love,
the gift of loving.
Third, I am a lover
because daffodils depend on
sunlight to thrive
and the pen depends on the writer
to write.