Of late administrative problems
have obstructed constant production of poetry.
Poetry is not a production
but a product of the unconscious.
I have rescheduled writing times
and locations to address this problem.
He has no writing schedule
and writes on scraps of paper.
Some of these leaks are either
false or at best inaccurate.
The unconscious may not be accurate
but it does not habitually lie.
As a rule I write three drafts:
one on paper, two at the computer.
He has no idea at all about this:
sometimes it’s one draft, sometimes a dozen.
My favorite image is the small pond
across the road from my home.
He is a compulsive opportunist
using the few images he can manage.
I write while listening to classical music,
jazz, or sometimes even the blues.
He writes listening to children’s programming
like Thomas, PJ Masks, or Bob the Builder.
Some of my poems employ strict rhyme
while others occasional rhyme, yet some don’t rhyme.
He makes grandiose statements
that mean absolutely nothing.
My favorite poets are Homer,
Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.
His favorite poets are his Ego,
his Memory, and his Imagination.
Poetry is the Art of the Impossible
and the activity of the Inexpressible.
Poetry is the practice of masochistic failure
and nearly the absence of dignified composure.