Write poetry.
Write bad poetry and then burn the paper.
Write good poetry and fold it into a crane, let it fly away
on an extended vacation with your muse.
Write nothing and see what happens,
see what happens when you stand in the dark with nothing on but
a halfhearted smile.

Kill a mocking bird, and scoff;
write about that too.

My mother said do it right the first time,
but I had already made a mistake so I killed myself with
three bottles, a roll of gauze and twenty pigeons in flight.

Write about things that never happened like they
are the truest thing in your heart. Write
about things that did happen like they are dirty lies.
Write about smoke rings and cancer patients and thirty
degrees below zero. Write about the rising oil prices,
like it will make a difference.

Don’t write and see what happens,
see what happens when there is no one left to listen
to your heartbeat and you wish you had written that song
three years ago.

My mother told me I was the worst thing that ever happened,
and I ate an entire pumpkin pie, sitting on a merry-go-round,
feeling desolate. Feeling like a desert without even any cactuses.

Write about how the dish ran away with the spoon,
and rain rain go away like it was your idea.
Like it was a good idea.

Write