I Make The Road. I Draw The

The First Kiss Plummeted Him Down A Hole And Popped Him Out Into A World He Thought He Could Get Along In—as If He’d Been Pulling Hard The Wrong Way And Was Now Turned Around Headed Downstream.

I Hate Two Kinds Of Sentences You Hear In Workshops, The Ones Beginning "i Really Like ..." And The Ones Beginning "my Problem With This Poem Is ..."

I Wandered Over Across The Hall Where They Were Showing A Short Movie About Vasectomies. Much Later I Told Her That I'd Actually Gotten A Vasectomy A Long Time Ago, And Somebody Else Must Have Gotten Her Pregnant. I Also Told Her Once That I Had Inoperable Cancer And Would Soon Be Passed Away And Gone, Eternally. But Nothing I Could Think Up, No Matter How Dramatic Or Horrible, Ever Made Her Repent Or Love Me The Way She Had At First, Before She Really Knew Me.

Down The Hall Came The Wife. She Was Glorious, Burning. She Didn't Know Yet That Her Husband Was Dead. We Knew. That's What Gave Her Such Power Over Us. The Doctor Took Her Into A Room With A Desk At The End Of The Hall, And From Under The Closed Door A Slab Of Brilliance Radiated As If, By Some Stupendous Process, Diamonds Were Being Incinerated In There. What A Pair Of Lungs! She Shrieked As I Imagined An Eagle Would Shriek. It Felt Wonderful To Be Alive To Hear It! I've Gone Looking For That Feeling Everywhere.

I Think It's Silly For Anyone To Think You Could Write Under The Influence, But If They'd Like To Think That, I'd Like To Keep The Legend Alive. Maybe I Was Under The Influence When I Wrote Jesus' Son And I Just Didn't Know It.