"Finally, I suspect that it is by entering that deep place inside us where our secrets are kept that we come perhaps closer than we do anywhere else to the One who, whether we realize it or not, is of all our secrets the most telling and the most precious we have to tell."

I always wanted to be one of those writers at readings who could get up there and tell an interesting story or two before reciting a poem.  It aggravated me a great deal when I’d see a poet doing this, casually adjusting themselves into conversation mode. 

There is always an interesting anecdote like, “I wrote this after Robert Creeley put his hand on my shoulder and insisted I try the corned beef hash.” 

Following these marginal comments, the poet would hunker down and garble some gobbly gook never hesitating to invoke Pound, Williams, and Ginsberg.  If you were lucky they would mention a woman, usually Plath, never mind the contemporaries. 

But I don’t really have any good stories like that. 

Mostly I like to remember the little things: 

I’ve been looking for the perfect hat for over ten years. 

Eating Neapolitan ice cream makes me feel dangerous and copy machines make me horny. 

I like to shop for clothes that make me feel sexy, but since I fucking loathe shopping and rarely go, I don’t often feel sexy. 

Furthermore, I like pretending I’m someone new every day even though I'm a creature of habit.  Each evening I change out of my work clothes and sit at the kitchen table.  I imagine band names for an imaginary band I front.  Sometimes I even hear the sound of the audience as we step onto the stage, their voices bawling our name. 

Last night: Palmer McWilson and the Runaways.  

Tonight: Nick Musso and the Riot.