for me writing poems is
vomiting onto the bathroom
floor after a blacked out
thursday night I hold
off until
I can’t
and then
the act itself – convulsive,
jagged glass and bile,
perverse relief –
sometimes I see patterns
in these ink blot tile emissions
revealing to me omens
better left unprophesized
note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their intended order, start here.