Make up.

Make do.

Makeshift.

Make a cake, a drink, a doozy, a dud.

What I’m saying is, to get in, around and through, you gotta make something. Kick your inner critic. Now is the time to make junk. Get loose, let go.

What are you making?

I’m making lists, letters, meals, memos, poems, pictures, cookies, collage, drawings, darings, delights. I’m playing with words and dreams and fears. I’m staying close, inside, mining the interior of mind and memory. I’m making do with the tools I have: paper, pen, words and glue.

Will you join me? Let’s raise the rate of artful expression. Make something now.

Fissure

You want a show, something worth seeing

but here lights blink, engines stall and

cheat grass takes hold of every chance.

Want is a language of rusted grumble.

You long for the comfort of a crossing,

some magical door, an arch, to meadowlark

and soft rolling slope. But what good is

this ache, this pressing want?

You must find the merits of giving up.

Take a flicker of light, some heat, any

thing to stoke your hope. Let the world

split open. In everything fissure.

— Drew Myron