I wrote all my poems in three weekends, back in 1997.
Since then, I’ve been picking the right words for the
wrong time or grabbing some wrong lines to share

when it works. There’s no trick to it, other than to
sometimes remember what it felt like to not sleep
for days; busy tracing around authenticity.

My poems baked on greaseproof paper, my soul
never truly present. My heart trampled, I never
minded making little from the philosophical ease

attached to drinking far too quickly and too often.
Here are the scars from self-inflected wounds. I
rewrite them now for attempted intellectual amusement.