to eat or not to eat

this is how i go through entire days without eating, i just keep doing the next literary thing that comes to me. though the smell of freshly brewed chicken soup is in the air, i'm here writing, trying to capture the moment, tap into the electricity i felt so palpably when i got home, that i must admit is fading now with a headache threatening, the sounds of sponge bob in the air, and the drawn windows blocking out the sun.

just this morning i was walking down the streets of paterson, new jersey amidst a lightly falling snow, grateful to be alive.

a poetry workshop at the poetry center, and i met a poet there who stunned me in a platonically intimate way. i have to write about it, but i'm trying to grapple with it first. i wanted to call my sister and stave off some of the emotion at first, but she was not home. so i reached a friend who could talk for a moment.

i turned on the radio, but shut it off knowing i was avoiding the very thing i need to face. this moment with this poet.

i can't tell you the feeling of sitting before an awardwinning poet (i am beginning to hate that phrase), and looking into her eyes as we were photographed. we exchanged business cards and chapbooks, she even bought mine. another crippling blow to whatever sense of distance i would attempt to muster.

something about her insisting she wanted to pay for it. and the hesitation as i dedicated it to her, do i tell her how much i am really charging? how much am i worth? the split second doubts shooting through my head, and i charged her full price kids, which she gladly paid. gotta love feminists.

but there was more. an intangible something that i'll have to explore in a poem. this poem is stalking me and i want to run and hide, but i can't.

she asked me, after our seven minutes writing time,

how did you craft a poem in such a short period of time?

i told her,

it's the way i write.

we will speak more on it later, it sounds a bit out there, my ideas. but she can handle them. and i hope she gets something from my chapbook.

i sold another to a poet i know here locally, and gave one to the matriarch, and another to her counterpart. i will have to put in a new order soon.

we all want to be published. it's the nature of the beast. i'm content to self-publish. and perhaps pursue my mfa under this new poet. i'm not sure.

but there is something there.

my prof wrote back about my work, he said it is good. he is pleased. i think he's being gentle and i don't really know why. i have to write an essay about the process of cramming my damn self into a form, but i will.

so much i've learned today. i'm glad i went. at 8am, the soft warm bed was more alluring than the promise of meeting new poets. and i was reminded while i was there how we must make time for the muse. must make time to write.

don't let it get away, it's important.

now i must eat.
peace.