I am uninspired here.  I read over my writings from when I was working in downtown Boston-- they're interesting, unique, special, good.  All because they're written about people there. 

My poetry centers around people and in order for me to write well about anything, I have to be around people.  People-- strange though they are, stupid as they may sometimes be, annoying as they may sometimes be, weird, aloof, rude, mean, odd, conformist, ordinary, whatever-- people inspire me and I need to observe-- meld into the background and observe, ready-- armed to capture someone on paper when they least expect it.

Most never know that I've caught them.  Most never know they're in a world far from their own, and that world is mine, and it belongs to me, on my papers, in my books, on my website-- they belong in my mind.


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