So Quiet Songs for Loud Times is officially in the world, and I'm thinking about what this means. It means I'm blessed, first and foremost, but also cursed with the strange kind of incessant doubt about how and when the work will get to you, dear reader...if at all. What are these little dreams we make when we wake? And what do they do when we're not there?
This summer I have shows here and there and big big hopes and a pocket full of poems that will be shaped and kick and scream and "be hard" as my friend Martin once said about my work. "You always want your reader to work." I guess it's true. I want some kind of struggle to happen, something to feel each other by. I want there to be life. But I also want it to be easy. I never get what I want, and that's the beauty of it, I suppose.
Let's go. Cast adrift. Perhaps we're already there. It's July, after all. The kids are flashing signals to one another across the court. The world is asleep. But not really. So much is up. So much is alwasy up. Up.