I want to resolve that I’m going to start writing again. Long time ago — 40 years ago now — I was writing and sharing poetry and stories. I went to the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa Institute and studied under Allen Ginsberg. I had a few short stories and poems published. But I became disenchanted with the Beats, and the whole writing process. I went into a shell, started doing visual art, but I didn’t quit writing. I have written all my life and it has made my life better, especially in dealing with a life long mystery illness, and recovering from a toxic family of origin.
I have volumes of journals. Some are visual. Some are filled the stories I see around me every day. Some contain imaginings and poems. A lot contain process writing, which is a kind way of saying they contain a lot of navel gazing and complaining.
This coming year I hope to look through them and find stories and poems that I want to share. I don’t feel as vulnerable as I did when I was in my 20s, though that sense is still there to some degree. I’ve decided just to do my own sharing, no working though gatekeepers and editors (though I will have friends look over my work for editorial and revision help).
So here, on New Years Eve, of 2023, is a poem.

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