TRUTH Vigilante: Ew, Icky. How Gross?

Bleed For Momentary Insan…inspiration

Having thought
pen lacking
idea growing
first utensil located rubs paper dry
the light etchings on tree fiber
forms barely traceable valleys on the page
and the scribbled storm of anger
that leaked a bit of ink,
finally…but
ran dry mid word
and the wiry clouds formed whirls
topmost
never producing a drop in a tempest tossed
emotions lapping over thoughts
inspiration does not flounder in a corked bottle
bobbing safe. It drowns.

Pens refreshed
stand at the ready
in the midst night
when a dream awoke
the most beautiful feeling
to run through a flowery field of words.

The quill clutched
looks to aim
to aim
to aim
Nothing to scrawl on remains
and the search —
for a bookmark? Envelope? A napkin that will do?
Matchbook covers once sufficed at a bar.

In wild youth
a cut oozed from forefinger
stained a curled sleeve of white bark.
Inspired thoughts
I thought
I cannot recall
because misplaced —
our initials in that tree, gone as well Talk to text
ruins creativity produces and ego’s rushed spontaneity
I cannot trust my hand to a page
It’s too easy to mail it in.


3.20.23

A book is coming…I keep telling myself…as all kinds of arbitrary deadlines near & pass…like blaring traffic. So, there’s that.