I have these thin little books of poetry laid out in front of me and I
Just want to gulp them all down.
Sweat them out, the way you pound out punches or kicks or pushups.
Learn to do it properly.
And I remember a tough old woman who advised me that the secret to life
(and karate)
was that you learned to enjoy the awkward incompleteness, the way that you
come back to zero and glance nervously around at your neighbor,
You learn to enjoy not knowing what's next.
You learn to enjoy being a beginner.
but does anybody enjoy wobbling on clumsy feet? really?
Here I am,
Impatient.
As though I'm not old enough to know one thing,
and that one thing is to take small bites and chew carefully
and that the only things worth caring about will leave you dead-stopped
listening to echoes
and breathing silence.
As though I didn't ask for this when I was young and a holy terror to all my teachers.
Didn't you want a world where there was always more to explore? Didn't you want to be anything and everything?
Did you ever want to stop changing? Did you ever want to consider yourself finished?
(and don't you know that a day closer to done-it-all is just a day closer to death?)
Yes
But I can't help it.
I look at the sun and think
"I want to carry that around in my mouth."