How It Happens

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Schizophrenics are never lonely…

Writing writes itself,
like an avalanche
falling from a mountain
in its own season
for no willful reason,’
or water spouting
from a natural fountain.

Effort or method
are never involved.
Poems just happen,
breath after breath,
inevitable as death.

All that is necessary:
morning, coffee, a pen.
A quiet place to sit
and hear the voices
that never quit.

Images flood the head
like a rushing stream,
like a drunken babble
in a happy hour bar,
like a swarm of bats
not to be swatted away,
demanding their say.

New worlds are built
in lines or rhyme,
world after world,
one word at a time.