Nobody warned me.

And, here I am piss drunk on life and poetry ... on a slightly coldish morning, still trying to figure out who I am after many lifetimes lived.

Never, never work on a poetry collection in the morning. It is like getting piss drunk on life ... until you are alive, lost, hopeful, aching, moved, awed, sad, happy, delirious, aroused, passionate for life ... and things you have no words for.

You could get arrested. You could get admitted into a lunatic asylum because you seem too madly trippy. You feel too full of words, feelings, aches and longings wanting to tumble out and also strangely full of silence. Huge gaps of content silence. Deep, deadly pockets of silence ...

Life O life. So much within. And, when they come out as words they seem so stupid, so inadequate. So distorted out of their richness. Their layers ... and still with their heady magic...

If today, you find me a little wild, a little weirder than usual ...

Yeah ... it is that huge bucket of poetry I drank from ... that heady mix of things you have no name for ... and don't care or dare to name ... because not everything has a name... or can be pinned down.

Yeah... yeah ...

As I have said before, Poetry is what remains after the poem is over.

Yeah, long after the poem is over.

Poetry is all that remains. - SS