I’ve had Billy Joel’s “A Matter of Trust” on repeat this morning—
not quietly, I might add.

The music kept the blaze alive while I finished the poem that jolted me awake—
which, naturally, sparked another poem.
How do you poets hold hot coals to your chests? Holy guava dip!
I’ve no idea what to do with one except toss it from left hand to right until it cools enough to shape.
That’s exactly what I did with that first flame today.

To smother the doubt, I cranked the song even louder.
Yes, Mr. William Joel’s tune that doesn’t mean only what the title claims.
I won’t dissect it here—this isn’t about the song—but psst… that not-so-little ditty is not just about trust.

So anyway, the first poem is called “Renewal,” and it’s been rattling around in me in one form or another since I first saw the movie Logan’s Run as a kid. I just never thought I would be able to tame that particular fear with words.

I’m not ready to share it, because it’s fresh. And, to use a terribly tired and tortured word, raw.
This was meant to be the simple post—the little hand-wave,
“Hey, I wrote a poem today. Maybe take a look?”

Some days controlling language isn’t as easy as I’d like: here, have another poem. Maybe it’s foolish to share something on the same day it’s written, but I’ll either come away Joel’s fool or his king (queen, obv.). I’ll take the chance, every time, for art.

Side note: I’d pay to have a constant supply of that fire in my chest. It’s cardio by poetry. Makes me wish I smoked – I’d pace back and forth, a cigarette (minus the nicotine and, you know, real smoke) between my fingers, mumbling, laughing when I found a word, pulling at my hair when I couldn’t quite land on what I was looking for.

I remember sitting with someone once, puzzling over a title for a piece of my work. The right one came not from me: someone else had found le mot juste.

Paradoxically, the word we landed on was paradox. (Collaboration is a beautiful thing. Not essential, but fun. It was kinda like having another brain on tap for a hot moment.)

Throat clearing over now. Please accept this humble offering from my Busted Poetry Vending Machine.

Control: The Language

Before coffee,
before my overnight oats,
before I wrestled everything into the day—

the brain fire
that has burned in me for days,
subterranean Pennsylvanian coal fire,
shouldered its declaration front and center,
an overheated lover
smoldering syntax all over my
kitchen counters.

Mighty early,
mighty cheeky—
but it knows I am here for it.

The word plasma
that jumped onto my steering wheel
on Thursday
also asked for water.

I gave it a glass
before refilling my own bottle.

How many words
to an ounce?

My lips, dry—
but my soul?
quenched.

Not extinguished.

I pull up my digital day planner.
Under writing,
I put a check.

The language must be controlled—
except when it can’t
be.

Yup, Billy—now it’s a matter of trust.