I’ve nearly finished with my poetry chapbook. Sent it to a few friends to give feed back and a lil’ editing. It goes out thursday to my writing mentor. What a lot of work. After awhile it’s hard to even look at it. And I’m very glad to have pulled it together.
I will keep you all updated on the progress. I am determined to make it look like a real book and put it out in the world. I’m already planing book number two. I’m sooooo ambitious.
Ok… so I just did this ramble below. I didn’t try to stop it. I gave myself into it. eegads.
Stories are made up In truths, in exaggerations
In missed placed perceptions. A movie like scene
scanning the panorama of the eyes,
sending, sending, sending
endless data, the endless
report of moments of living.
Grab it. Grab it. Make up what it is we don’t see
or think we see, or want it be, or believe it must be.
Make up what we believe is some truth of it
in the outcome or back story, of your story
in the story of make it so in the vague
interpretation of limited information.
We all do it. And we do it again cause it panoramas
around us endlessly in near ending reels
and reams of life rolling by, in and out
Seeps into our own perceptions,
Grabs at our guts, our heart, our imaginings
Grabs out our history, our wants and desires.
Steals away any truth of it in its flash by.
Holding whatever perception made up of
pieces of truth that may have not an ounce
of truth to it. Till that story passing by
gives the details. It’s way gone now.
Out of the passing scene, in the
‘See ya later baby. Bye bye.”
Fill your eyes up with the next and
the next… Good lord it never stops.
No truth report coming from that .
And damn we were all wrong
Speak up to your own truth
If you happen to know it
Cause it’s the only truth
you got. All the rest is
passing us by for some over
stimulation and illusive
reminders that we’re
good and bad stories tellers
and stories …. well they
just keep on coming.