I wanna write another poem...

(WRITTEN months ago)

I WOKE up at around 4:15, almost an hour ago. I glanced at my laptop clock, it says I slept for about six hours... I feel I had enough sleep already, my mind is awake. I let Andres Segovia, the great flamenco guitar maestro, play with my early-morn rumination... Too early for Bee Gees or Led Zeppelin, I guess?

          My immediate memory of hours gone by slides to Westville Pub in West Asheville early last night—when a young man approached me, soon after I settled on a booth. “Hey, Pasckie, man... I love your poems, man!” as he eagerly extends his hand to greet me. I don't know him but does that matter? He saw/heard me read few months ago in town and he remembered me for those poems... In my little town, or in those little towns in my huge journey, where I left a little imprint of myself—a poem, mostly—I receive blessings such as a sweet reminder that, “You are the poet.” That's enough to make my day—makes me feel I am alive, worthy of life.

          Years ago, one summer afternoon, as I nonchalantly walked on a Wilmington beach, a 7-year old girl stared at me with a smile and exclaimed, “You are the man me and my mom met in Asheville, you had dancing there at the park!” I smiled back, “Bonfires for Peace.” Those random moments when someone sits beside me on a park bench, or someone recognizes me on an Earth Fare queue, or someone offers me a beer in a downtown bar, or someone stops on a street as I walk, and say, “I love your poems!” or “You are the journalist!” or “The Indie!” or “When is the next bonfire dancing in the park?” In my little town or in any other little town where I find my little me find himself—and that “himself” feels so huge. I feel like a rock star in just those little, random moments—and I'm not even Barry Manilow! Yet that's enough to make me feel like I wanna write another poem, and then my life is alive again. Just like that.