I wish I could feel like a beginner again on a regular basis.

I can’t recall the Original Joy of this work. I’ll catch glimpses when I try a new form, a new approach — but mostly, it’s like every line I write comes with its own voice saying “been there, done that.”

Someone once said that every poet really only writes one poem over and over. I don’t know if it’s entirely true for everyone, but I feel like it’s come true for me, and I’m starting to hate that poem.

Working on stuff like the Jim poems and now the Sondra series has helped, but I’m not sure what to do in addition to that, or about how to proceed once they are done. Setting the stuff to music has been wonderful, but even there I think I can only go so far.

I find myself reaching more and more for the guitar as a way to get it out there — to put stuff into words and music. Maybe that’s what’s next.

But I’m reaching an unthinkable point — the point where I may not see myself as a poet anymore. And for someone who’s identified that way since he was 14, for someone who’s made it such a central part of spirituality and being, that’s almost unbearable to contemplate.

OJ’s book is actually an attempt to smoke out the real killer.

The theory is, he’ll get upset at the inaccuracies in his book and write his own named “No, I DID IT!!!” Call me crazy, but it just might work.

Smaht thinkin’, eh?

Good night, everyone — I’m going to go to sleep now, he said hopefully.