I realized this morning that I am a classically trained poet. (As far as I’m concerned.) I was terrible in school, I didn’t fit in. I got in fights, argued with my teachers, and generally caused a ruckus. I refused to do my homework and I enjoyed playing and thinking and creating and learning far more than public school ever encouraged from me. I was in community college for three years before I dropped out, out of money and without focus.

Then I moved to Salt Lake City and got a job. I started working regularly and finally started building up the self-discipline that martial arts, public school, and my parents failed to instill in me (not that they didn’t try, or that I’m not grateful for their efforts), and then I … fell in love. For the first time in my adult life (which hasn’t been very long, I’m only what, twenty-five? nearly twenty-six?), my poet woke up.

I think I’ve always been a poet. I rewrite my words until they acquire this lyrical quality. I’ve trained myself to write and talk in similar ways, so talking is practice for my poetry, and writing is practice for my speaking. I learned how to weave words together and create images when I was young, and I was taught by life itself. No other school gives a person the same instruction. The same vocabulary.

“One of the aspects of being a poet is making things that have no business being related into reflections of one another, and making things that are the same, completely alien.”