It occurs to me that not writing poetry, that painting instead, or not painting, is also about poetry. So is deciding to go for a walk today, and gessoing wood panels, and posting a photo of graffiti by Phlegm. So is this tea and this paint; so is disillusionment with systems, communities, and institutions; so is the ache in my legs, and the ideas I have for writing more poems, which I may or may not write, and the manuscript that never quite gets to that final, final, edit, before being submitted to various unknown and unknowable publishers.
Graffiti art by Phlegm
