Writers’ rules

Do you write every day?

she asked me.

They say you have to

write every day to be

any good.

Sometimes I write every

day, sometimes I don’t,

I said.

One time I wrote for

a week straight. But I

was drunk then and

none of it made sense.

Then I wrote for a month straight:

I wrote all about my day

I wrote down what time I got up

I wrote about what I ate

I wrote about what I drank

I wrote about the weather

I wrote a letter to myself

I wrote a list of my ten favorite poems

I wrote down what time I went to bed…

…and what I dreamed about…

Did you dream about me? she asked.

Reflections on traffic

traffic sucks – it’s woven into

the fabric of American life

like caraway seed bagels

and yacht rock. Chanel perfume &

the Doobie Brothers. All taken

for granted and running in the

background. The

streets will soon be taken over

by self-piloting tractor trailers.

And urban hipsters on

robotic hoverboards

will vie for cramped automated

space in inflated tiny houses.

Put me in my container

now. Sail me out past the

Continental shelf and sink me

alongside the surplus WW II

jeeps, & 45 automatic pistols, no bone

to pick or soul to sell.

The last exit ramp is blocked by a

wildfire, and there  is no way we will make it back

to Kansas City tonight.