When I handed Dean Young my healthy stack of his poetry collections waiting anxiously for his signature ink marks, he asked me simply: Why the hell are you buying all of my books? Are you crazy? My answer was a shrug and a giggly smirk ... but I wanted to tell him (as cheesy as this may sound) that he had the ability to lessen my turbulence ... that his genius of language and quirky observations were often exactly precisely what it was I needed to calm or keep at bay the flames of my mind and soul.
But I didn't say this. Like I said I only responded with a shrug and a giggly smirk which coincidentally didn't convey diddly to this word-and-image-smith ... but I guess my feelings on this and many many other things are superfluous and often should remain in silence ... and in my head. I fear I have been sharing too much of myself lately ... there are indeed thoughts that should remain cubbied inside of my frontal lobe ... and not everyone needs to know my fears or my deep desires. These things should be saved for my poetry ... not that I have been able to write in weeks.
Then some guy said I looked like the Mona Lisa ... and that was strange enough to at least begin a poem ... but I am stiffled -- ironically by words. I think all he saw through his seeming drugged haze was the knowing shape of my violent smirk.