There is a new book. It contains poems and photographs, poems-on-photographs in fact. But these are no ordinary poems, not the kind that rhyme, not the kind that I have spent months re-working every word, but rather a more organic sort of poem — that of the end of the night.
Take a random Friday or Saturday night: I might spend the evening with friends, maybe celebrating someone’s birthday, maybe watching a Hawks game, maybe at a bar. After an adequate amount of laughing debauchery, the party ends, and I go home in a taxi. Once home, I make myself a tall glass of ice water and sit on the couch, turn on the TV, turn it off, disgusted, and the thought comes, “What have you accomplished today?”
And this thought disturbs me. And I feel a strong desire to create. Unfortunately, in the state it’s in, my mind operates only in flickers, a shadow of itself. The cleverness has left for warmer climates. But I am not to be stopped. It becomes imperative to create something, something that can be shared to connect, to amuse.
So I get my notebook out. I find an acceptable pen (one that writes unflinchingly). I scrawl words into the notebook. I scrawl more, and then I toss the notebook aside.
Exhausted and pacified, I continue to hydrate and then go to sleep.
These are those notebook words, superimposed upon different photographs, mostly taken with my phone:
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