I wrote a poem back in January that took me all of ten minutes to complete. I didn't revise it. I rarely revise my poems. On the day before submissions were due for this year's lit mag, I realized that I wanted (and needed) something new.

The other two poems I was submitting have been submitted to death. I didn't think they'd make it through the dozens of readers and the silent scrutiny that leads to someone seemingly saying, "this isn't good enough."

So I put something together called Mosaic in 22 Lines where I took 22 lines from other poems that I didn't think were worth submitting either and created a young fresh and new poem. Why 22 lines? My composition book only has 22 lines.

I made a rule that no matter where the line ended and no matter how much I loved the next line, I'd end it at that line. 22 poems, 22 lines, created at 10:00 the night before submissions closed...

...and it's getting published.

It worked. The poem works. It makes no sense, but it makes so much sense. My procrastination paid off and I'll have something published in the lit mag for the third straight year.

I guess my real point was that I threw something together at the last minute, without putting a whole lot of thought, but a bit of effort, and it was published as if I had revised and revised it. It was accepted, when honestly I didn't read it all the way through until it came time to typing it. Someone thought it was good enough and worthy of publishing despite the fact that the poem didn't exist a month before they chose it. It almost seems so very...wrong.

Don't get me wrong. I'm honored. I'm thrilled. I'm grateful. But it still doesn't seem right to me. But regardless, I'll find myself up in the sky lounge on campus in semi-formal clothes in April reading a poem that will only conjure images of my other poems when I read it. I'll be reading to people who will tell me that they love it, that I should join the staff, that my other poems were great, and all that will be on my mind is how this poem came about too easy.

Those creative writers have great memories. Three of them heard my name once, and still remember it years later. I'd tell them my name, and they'd remember the poem I had written, and nearly remembered it better than I.

Speaking of remembering, I have a great memory of them. The music that was playing in my car, the way I waited until it began, the conversation with the woman whose story was just before mine in the book. Heading to the radio station last April to record my poem for a 2002 compilation disc and the way the cold pizza smelled.

I've completely lost my train of thought.

I guess I'll put all of that aside, and enjoy the author's gala in April. They're fun even if a bit more formal than I'm used to. The conversation is always fun. It's always nice to hear compliments and to compliment and meet others interested in the same thing you are. I should be good once I put out of my head the idea that this poem that to me looks very jumbled and was very last minute will be included among the works of my peers.

Other than that, the only question now should be do I wear my leather jacket for the third consecutive year or not?

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