Writing poetry was a big breakthrough for me. Somehow, it was healing. During the months when I did most of my writing, and I’ve not written much, I felt like I finally accepted who I am, via my ability to *say* who I am.

And, hey, it is a little like mental masturbation. Writing is. Being hip and cool is.

During this summer of 1993, I was struggling just to feel ok with being alone. I was 24 years old, and too sensitive for my own good.

One night, I was sitting at Bongo Java, and I thought to myself I would feel better if I could write something poetic. “Mary” was serving coffee. She didn’t look happy *at all*. And I felt myself energetically probing her, and both wanting her attention and wanting to cheer her up. She wouldn’t budge. With that in mind and heart, I sat down and wrote:

Humming, drumming, restless mind fumbling….
What to think?
“Please go to sleep!”
Could I want, something to eat?
Who broke the clock, dropped on the floor?
Who left the sock, not in the drawer?
Trains!
Plastic spoons!
Snowballs!
Pink bassoons????
Thoughts so random, flowing so fast….
Rest my love, and sleep, at last.

This was about how your mind comes-up with the craziest of random thoughts, right as you drift off to sleep. I was so pleased with myself that I had written this… and I copied it onto a slip of paper, and handed it to Mary, with my phone number.
She barely looked at me, and glanced at the piece of paper, and slipped it into her pocket. I saw her only a few times thereafter, and she never noticed me. She was probably in her late 20’s. Oh well. But I had the poetry, anyway.

– Chad