I again find myself suddenly completely unable to understand what a poem is or how one writes one. I am a giant question mark. I am again convinced I have nothing to say. Yet I have this urge to say something in this medium. Or do I? I believe that the medium of poetry is an alchemy. That if the human body is a churning morass of chemical reactions, the brain a switchboard of calls and responses, then art, and for me that takes the expressive form of poetry, is a non-biological function. It is mystery (I almost wrote misery, which is another post all together), it is magic, it is the je ne sais quoi of being. I believe if I speak through the mystery clearly enough, I will understand something in a way that transcends understanding. (Is that true?) And maybe you, reader, will hear me and understand it too. (Do you care? Do I care if you care?) I don’t believe in the god of heaven or hell. (Or do I?) But that moment of connection across the chasm between self and world, and between two walking science experiments? That’s something worth striving toward. Isn’t it?