prehistory to 1988
1989-90
1991-92
1993 to present
I was eleven or twelve when the muse woke me out of a perfectly good sleep. Literally. I was sound asleep and then woke with a start with a poem in my brain/heart/hands. There was no arguing with it at the time. The muse had her willing slave. It would be years before I would learn that often times if you just ignore the poem it's likely to disappear. Probably the muse just delivers it to some other sucker who is willing to write it down. But what did I know from good or evil, inspired or insane?
Okay, there's a little jesting here, and a good deal of awe for people who can use language with such precision. Language is a world in which I gladly swim with great respect. I appreciate the chance to classify myself in the same humble breath with the likes of Rumi, Robert Herrick, e. e. cummings, Stevie Smith, Pablo Neruda, Shel Silverstein, and Edward Gorey, just because I write a little free-form verse from time to time.
That first poem had something to do with the planets of our solar system, especially Saturn. And yes, it was a metaphor, even at that age. You know the pull of Saturn at such a young age cannot be a good sign. Thankfully most of the poems I wrote before my eighteenth birthday were consumed in a purging and very intentional fire. Bless the gods for foresight.
Grouping the poems by subject I think would tell you more about how I read them than anything else. Therefore, to save you any false interpretations, I have arranged them more or less chronologically.
Remember, once you've read it, you can't unread it.