I wrote this at the top of my drafts
document for this month, which is
a page or place that I reserve for titles
that randomly land between my ears
with at least some conviction or have
a look, a feel or a sound to which
I am attracted. There never seem
to be a dearth of these sexy juxta
positions. Or quotes I come across in
hopes of the perfect upcoming epigram.
Sometimes I just grab a title or a quote
and without an ounce of forethought
go from there. In that way, it’s just
another parameter, a way to hone
from the top of the process. Occ
asionally, I’ve been doing that
thing that most of my more seasoned
compatriots always would relay (in
tortured manners) their own versions,
where I keep glimpsing one of those
titles or quotes, and for weeks there’s
this thing that sort of grows, like a
planted seed or a new explosion on
the horizon or a tumor or a sleek
blueprint by the latest poet-architect
sensation. I rarely build that slowly,
but when I do, well, I cannot say that
these that seem to rise in that manner,
to work their ways toward a possible
existence, are any better than those
composed like this one, in which I’ve
grabbed the title and just immediately
run with it. Also, because pickles came
up in conversation just earlier today
with the person who sits at the center
of my universe. That was so close
enough to pure serendipity that the
urge simply could not be resisted.
