Wound Poetics

My voice is back to regular strength and my hand hurts like a you know what.

Last night Chris turned the tables using my stock lecture on me.

See usually it's Chris who's impaling himself.

When that happens I give him a big long speech about how this is a sign that he needs to slow down, pay attention to his surroundings, re-access his actions and perception.

Last night as I was on the receiving end, I realized it's a really annoying lecture.

But it's accurate.

Last time I hurt myself, over five years ago, it stuck me on the sofa for a couple weeks where I had nothing better to do than passively read poetry blogs and magazines. Something I rarely did before.

And now look at me.

I'm totally informed and shit.

Last night I dreamed that I showed up to the big dance. There were two rooms, I had no idea who was in which, so I randomly picked one. I saw a friend who was surprised to see me. He had not believed me before when I said I'd be back. I don't know why, like I told him in the dream, my word is always good.

I'm back, baby,

with a hole in my palm and a

teacup teeming with really good words

that I can't wait to pour in your lap.