It breaks my purist process
to dedicate this hour to write,
to set table side and rack my brain
for inspiration.  I am erratic
to my core and that above all else
defines any words that might
form sentences on my tongue.
My rule has been to pen only
which screams at me,
and begs it’s way onto the page,
not the subtle nuance that lingers
without warning on the edges
of synaptic clefts.  And so you
ask, why I am here?  If it is,
that I am so opposed to poetry
not spun spontaneously.
Why would I, a carpenter, join
you poets in this poetry parade?
Perhaps I too long to know,
and the answer that I seek
is in fact to throw
my highfalutin notions
to the wind, which is
in itself an erratic act,
and therefore consistent
with the whirling dervish
of this state of being
I call starting June.