Just click on the image of the poems to read them.
Thinking generates lists. We keep them in our heads. Or, we write them on random chits of paper, on bargain store whiteboards with quaint floral decals, in notebooks or month-at-a-glance agendas. Lists. Our mind is insecure without them. Sometimes, because I'm lazy, a list becomes a poem. It is to the poem what a pun is to the joke, or worse.
And thinking is so damned tenuous. It's on the tip of my tongue. What was that we were talking about? (shhhh. I can't introduce you because I forget his name.) Poems, like snow, evaporate or sublimate, into nothingness. What was clear and there in a flash is gone.
So that is why, to me, they are all precious.
