on writing?

I never want to write.

I do not wake in cold sweats pawing for my pen.

Words have not once poured from me against my will, nor have they pounded down the doors of my mind demanding to be given audience.

I have no coarse truth to force upon the sleeping world today, no packed globs of mouth-sounds to send forth in righteous anger like the spittle a man in a suit might wipe off his neck as he glares at some lunatic in a sandwich board who breached his private public space with wet, ineffable projectile proof of life.

There are no birds trapped in my chest.

No pressing wisdom in my Alpha-Bits.

I am not the scribe of unbridled heart-yelps nor the dome that makes sonorous the single prayer that accounts for the souls of all congregants.

I would not die without this.




But in the quiet hours,
Flexing my foot under the hot rush of the tap
Or picking eyelashes from a lover’s cheek,
There is a soft beauty that finds me
Like the hollow scritching of mice against plaster,
The dull pull of all that which will go, unnoticed,
About its business without care or record
That moves my hand across the page, eyes shut,
Shifting fogs of ink that are mine over the vast sea that is not.


Fell off the daily poem wagon very quickly; trying to pick up some momentum.