Those of us who did not
die young
remain
to teach those of you
who will
if you keep doing
like our friends
on a bike
in a car
while riding a float down the river at five in the morning, beer in hand
when the thing that should have stopped
and yielded
for them
as it did for us
did not
and will not
ever again.

about the 54 @ 27 ::

It’s that time again!

When I was 23, I read this stupid article that claimed the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Well I freaked out like I do and cranked out work like I can and it resulted in 46 poems written at 23. A year passed, I calmed down, then I freaked out again two years later and wrote another bunch of poems called 50 at 25, all written before I turned 26 on April Thirtyish.

Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen on the odd years? Who knows.

But this year?

This year I’m trying a more holistic approach. 54 poems crammed into next spring will kill me, guaranteed. But one a week? That’s doable and the blog has languished of late. One a week-ish I can do.

So let’s do this thing.