☀ Today's Poem: "Where Do You Get Your Ideas?" Brendan Constantine

There's a little shop
at the end of each sentence
where I buy the next one.

In a glossy catalog
delivered every month
from evil.

My ideas come from a cave
my father found in my mother.
It was war, he said, a fire
already going. On the walls
were paintings of more mothers.

From the fire, the word itself, from
everything that could burn us
in the moment of saying it.

Ask me again. Now ask me why
I asked you to ask me.

Really, they just barge in
whenever they feel like it.
I haven't finished a dream
in days.

The first ones came by ship.
Stowaways, they nearly starved.
Then someone found a sack
of almonds and everyone
lived. When they reached port,
they could see in the dark.

From chumps who aren't using them.

From a vending machine
outside the crime museum.

From you. Right now,
you're giving me ideas.
One of them is worth millions.
Another is a small harp
playing in your coat. Still
another is a balcony view
of the parade. There were
supposed to be dancers
in flaming hats. You will
have to imagine them.

From knowing when to stop.
It was a few stanzas ago.

At night, I form a church
with my hands. Inside are
faces of people I've hurt.
If I want to sleep, I must
look each one in the eye.
I don't make the rules.