feel the rhythm. whatever it is. just bring it in.

the scribbles on my hand came from a reaction i had to something on the street. i no longer remember what it was. what i scratched out doesn't make sense to me anymore. maybe i later wrote about it in a journal. maybe i didn't. oh well.

the joy of creating is often in the act of it...good bad whatever...not only in the result. photographs that never get printed. a mandala. lines of nonsense that never got molded into a refined poem.

on the other side are those ideas that have percolated for years, been thought, written, rethought, rewritten. this "poems" section includes a handful of the latter, poems i spent time with, choosing words rather than only reacting to an instance of being.

of course, the next time i'm on the street and the impulse rings, i'll snag a pen from the console of my car, my bag, wherever and again tattoo my hand with the moment.