Creative Process

Typing

but I’m 

tired. So I lie

on the

carpet.

Let my hair

sprawl

on the floor.  

Strands 

of a black silk, 

complex web.

Huli

onto my stomach

and gather

the fallen

hair.

Press my palms 

onto the floor.

Focus on

my hand 

moving 

in a circular

motion into a cocoon.

I huli back 

over, and look

at termite wings

and exoskeletons 

in the light

fixture above.

This is how

I work. 

I lay

bound in 

an entanglement 

of daydreams.

Don’t 

bother

me. I’m 

tired 

all 

the time.

The unravelling 

of thoughts

never stop. 

Huli

on my back.

Close

the eyes,

my fingers 

worm through 

the warmth 

of my silken 

hair. 

The 2:22 p.m. sun.

Content.

Don’t judge

me. I’m 

working.

I have to write 

a poem 

about this.

(Object: the carpet covering the floor of my “home office” which is actually a landing at the top of the stairs)