“Choosing one author who inspires my writing is making my head spin.  I need lots and lots of input all the time.  I fall asleep happiest in bed with the company of four or five– books, that is! Still, if I think back to the first author who really inspired me to write it was undoubtedly Chris Van Allsburg.  His words are simple, yet he creates such intense and mysterious worlds.  His artwork is delicious.  I love any author who isn’t afraid to tease the reader into using their imagination.  I have plenty of friends who will say, “You’re an adult.  Read adult books.”  They can bite me.”
One day he will say,
“How are you?’
And I will say, “Fine.”
And mean it.
And then all the film
Will run out
And there will be
That moment of dark
Like in the Old Kilauea Theatre
When you couldn’t even see
Your hand in front of your face
And all you could hear
Was the rain rattling
On the tin roof.
And like that
I will ask
“How are you?”
And he will say,
“I’m fine.”
And then the lights will come back on,
And as we exit the theatre
We will navigate
Spilled popcorn
And our shoes will make
That sound
They make
When we walk
On sticky
It Had Been a Rough Week
Then, my mom called
And told me to meet her at the ER.
My grandmother had collapsed.
And as I rushed out of my apartment
At the bottom of the stairs
My neighbors were gathered
And shouting.
All I could think was,
“What now?”
As I looked down
And saw their baby
For the first time.
3 AM
On the bridge to home
The blue lights
Suspended in the starless sky
Tell a story above the water.
I follow the line they make
With my eyes
And avoid looking
Down at the endless
Industrial stripes.
All lit up
In dizzying rows.
At the greatest height
I become terribly afraid
That gravity will forget about me
And that my little car
Will float away
Into the dark sky.
So I keep my eyes
On those blue lights
And keep all my thoughts
Towards home.
Jumping Jack and the Cajun Moon Cat
Her daddy taught her to love Zydeco
Pulled her by the hood of her pink windbreaker
Through the spinning maze of dancers
Right to the front
Where she laughed her head off at the sight
Of those funny instruments
Squeeze boxes
Buckets and spoons and hands clapping
Whistles and beards
Her mouth hung open and they roared into it
To this day
And the sounds of washboards
Make her knees weak
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