First, scribble on a page:
form the words with a pencil;
change everything often.
Then, see the faces and
gestures; hear the words
and smell the work; taste
the raw desires and fears:
get them all on the page.
Do it so often you can find
the perfect word without hunting
for it; do it until you understand
what you have written.
Write when you are not writing,
in your head—while you are
scraping burnt porridge or carrying
lumber or waiting at the doctor’s office.
Do it instead of kissing your lover,
instead of having a life, and
get it on the page.
Place your life behind your eyes,
inside your ears, in your sinuses,
deep in your throat—when your head
is in the middle of the raw highway
at the edge of human desperation
and get it on the page.
For sms, who is in Afghanistan,
getting it on the page.