Now Playing: “God’s Favorite Customer,” FJM. 

My poem  “Fight Me at the Wafflehouse at Dawn” has been accepted by The Daily Drunk: “Pop culture writing that pops,” and I’m thrilled.

After agonizing and praying to the Nyquil gods during a nasty cold in April of this year to please, please, give me some way to call out to certain poets who were not, as far as I knew, using their considerable talents, this poem came to me at about 3 a.m. 

(Apparently I’ve become the self-appointed Art Room Mother of wayward poets. Particularly the talented ones. Why? Because art supersedes everything. It’s not about me. It’s about the work. Collectively.) 

I wasn’t even sure what the poem meant when I finished it, but I knew it was exactly right. Or the cold medicine thought so, anyway.

Word Raccoon wasn’t fully formed yet; I was winging it, and poetry felt scorching to the touch. You should see her poor little paws now that she gets to hold the fire!

I liken writing “Wafflehouse” to this moment in Hook when Robin Williams remembers he’s Peter Pan. When he sees the invisible feast and reclaims himself. I won’t try to describe that further because you really need to watch it for yourself, loves. 

Let me say ahead of time that this clip applies to all artists. So yeah…the power of imagination rules!

Anyway, my poetry popped that morning as if it had always been there and I just hadn’t seen it, and it was only when I called to others to please, god, use theirs that I became aware I had any of my own.

Still shy. Still unsure on the poetry front over here. But sometimes…maybe? 

In the meantime, I’m huffing others’ poetry, mainlining it because that’s where the good stuff is hiding. That’s where it’s real. That’s how we can be known, if we’re brave enough to write it. 

Not a pretty way of saying this, but here it is, anyway: some people make themselves known with their mouths. Some need to write it down. But in either case, you deserve to be known in a way that casual contact with the world will not give you. So try a pen, love, if you are feeling backwards. 

Art is all the plausible deniability the world needs. And I wouldn’t even term it that, because it’s just truth in different clothes. Truth is beyond the pettiness of details. 

Dammit, can’t give up that room mother role easily, can I? Sorry, where was I? 

Word Raccoon is covering her eyes in second hand embarrassment. I know, WR. I know. 

Maybe “Wafflehouse” doesn’t say all this to most people, but maybe it does just for the one person listening for it. 

Hell, maybe that’s not even who I thought it might be. But if it is…they’ll know. 

Art first. Art always. 

Mr. Rockwell will see you now. (Someone call Father John Misty, because we need to write a song with that in it!) 

Also, Sweet Loretta is getting back to the café where she once belonged. Let others talk of bagels and London Fogs while she huddles in her former corner with her notebook. The view might not be as good, but my pen has moved to lesser ones before.  

Except on Mondays, when the usual haunts go dark and caffeine cravings might reroute Word Raccoon and me elsewhere. Unless Word Raccoon stages a pajama coup and declares our kitchen table a sacred desk. 

Which, honestly, why isn’t that our default? 

Hons, I know this is probably embarrassingly earnest, but in case you hadn’t noticed, art is life to me. 

So many thanks again to The Daily Drunk.

Fight me in the Waffle House parking lot if you dare. 

But you’d better bring a pen.