Some poems are not meant for the page. They are meant for cups and bowls. They are meant to be poured out onto the floor or dashed off the bedside table by rampant elbows.
They are made for splattering, for long rivulets dripping down the walls like watercolors or alcohols or to be drunk, to get drunk upon and stumble, tipsy and blurry-eyed, slurring out through the lips and encouraging bad decisions.
They are poems meant to taste like paint: pigmented and thick, or watery and barely-staining, but poems that recolor you from the inside out, just the same.
They are poems like slurry and mud, meant to hold footprints, meant to be tracked through and ruin your mother’s just-cleaned linoleum, poems that can be followed by those who come in your wake.