I am broken, I feel broken, only happy when I write a poem though I hear nothing nothing in the wind in the street in my cat’s sleeping breath to suggest a poem tonight. I hear nothing. I see nothing, therefore, I am nothing. Thinking is never enough to be something. You can’t just think to be. You must also see. You must also hear. You must also feel. You must be. Otherwise, what separates us from a tree stump? How do we know if a tree can or cannot think? Or feel? Or see? Or hear? Or know—I write that word real slow and if the font of my handwriting had an “italics” function I’d use it on know. It’s this “knowing” we seek, we look for, we crave to be part of. It’s this knowing I sometimes convince myself I have, I set myself apart, and then never really find anyone else who “knows” (words real slow BOLD and italics in quotations just to set it apart, to give it weight, to give it importance.) And I don’t even know what I know or how I know, but I know I know, and I crave to meet others who do, too. Like I can just look them in the eyes and I’ll know, and he or she will know, too, and we’ll be together in this knowing. Am I talking crazy talk or does it all make sense? Maybe it was all that acid in my youth, maybe the endorphins from my natural childbirth in my twenties, maybe the hiking to the tops of mountains, I don’t know what, or who, or what, gave it to me but I feel so strongly that I have it. You know?