I always have things in my pockets: pen, paper, keys, bone stone, everything but my old whistle ring from the candy store. There’s always the worn paper, leaf veined & leaf thin by the time I get to putting them in some order, or not.
Sometimes they try to become poems.
We used to see each other all the time. Hit a mic or four in a night. Sometimes blur a few cities in one night, pull off the highway & roll into the 9-5. The chapbooks appeared as they are wont to do. Used to be simple old school chapbooks: side stapled card stock & xerox paper. & thank you Black Jesus for the hook ups with those who had temp jobs & knew how to duplex print. We tried things out in chapbooks. Ha–I still do:
How much? Only $10. Often that was that supper I’d sung for working my words & voice out loud live.
So here’s a floating chaplet. A moveable booklet. Except its not $10. It’s from me to you.
Poems move in & poems move out. You’ll have to check & see.
& the pages keep changing. & then they’ll be gone.
This one’s thinner than most the notes from my ass pocket. Slim enough to fit in yours.
