"How do you write?" someone asked.
I'd say lines sing to me at night
as if from a nagging lullabye
that keeps on humming til it's daylight.
I'd say lines sing to me on long rides
when drowned in humanity
tides of thoughts fill my mind.
I'd say lines sing to me when intoxicated
with a strong emotion brought about
by winning or feeling defeated.
I'd say lines sing to me through a sight or sound
like a lei of sampaguita blooms
strung by tiny, inexperienced hands.
At times too tight or loose, too fat or thin,
too short or long, fresh or withering,
or just right... and smells like a virgin.