Yes, we did this.

It's three countries, 
four states, and 
thirteen years later.  
I have a full-time job, 
a part-time car, 
and plenty of debt. 
I've had a wife,
two kids, and a cat.  
I didn't become famous, 
but I still play guitar, 
and on nights like this 
I remember, yes. 

Yes, we did this. 

We lay in hallways, 
stretched out like cats, 
surrounded by papers and books.  
We stayed up until two and wrote furiously 
because we had voices inside of us 
which we vowed we would not ignore. 

We endured bus rides 
by writing poems.  
We traded our secrets 
and our visions 
and our stanzas.  
We would all return to Salisbury 
with a hunger for pizza 
and each other
and for our work. 

We stood in countless lines 
and spent the time urgently 
scribbling our hasty words.  
I used to rip notices 
off of bulletin boards.  
I wrote posterback sonnets 
and colorful rhymes. 

I could see my art before me,
like the tip of a cigarette
on a dark night.
Sometimes it felt like the sun
on my naked back, and sometimes
it was like a fire in my gut
and a light behind my eyes.
And I tried to put it out.

I fought it with whiskey
and chased it with beer.
I drank until the acid stream
hissed out of me like water
through a canvas hose.
This was how
I fought the fire.
I became a whirlwind,
a noisemaker,
a suicidal driver
in the darkness,
a spitter of angry words.

Yes.  I, a keeper 
of the spark.

I drank until it felt 
as if the stars themselves
had been extinguished.

But we did this.

The words are my witness
and they do not move.
I flipped through
the old pages tonight,
our words stand like rocks
and will not move.

We did this,
and I am only afraid
of losing the fire now,
I have no more fear
of being burned.


We did this,
and I see now
that the gift 
was not free.

We did this
is what I have left,
and I'm paying it forward
because I can't pay it back.

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