Every damn thing slops into the psychic blender…
stewing in amniotic fluid (hardly recall a thing about it, but don’t consider it time wasted), stubbed toes, cartoons, scribbled love notes with boxes to check, cello lessons, wet dreams, hurried sex, found objects, lost souls, stems and seeds, so many pages read, films viewed, agnostic prayers conjured over sacred texts, hazy visions creeping into gray matter decorated in false-wisdom patina
…it comes out pureed and—frequently against my will—as poetry and prose.
J. R. Wormington: Author, earthling 