A Tsunami of Brainwaves Unleashed

Sometimes poetry

flits through my mind

like a flea that is fleeting,

like a gnat

becoming quite natty

Like a stink bug

embedded in the

center of a rose

without controls

all that bugs me

is washed out

of my head

in inky flows

most often I am

surprised at the

scribbled dribbles

of thought

that lie on the page

as if some ghost writer

had possessed me

with spirited antics

haunting my works.

even now I know not

what the next line will bring

but nevertheless here it is

what madness

what bliss

is this addiction

to the friction

of fingertips on keys

pressing thoughts

on starched white paper

Kill me before I stop again

my muse is a victim

of Tourettes Syndrome

scattering thoughts

impulsively before

my mind even formulates

what is being said

a runaway train of thought

taking a berth

and sharing dreams

coffee sits upstairs

in a pot

begging my pause

but I sit with my ravings

denying my cravings

lest the moment be lost.

poetry at the speed of write

in the wee hours of night,

pressing what's black onto white

isn't this what it's all about

this primal soundless shout

puncuated with periods spent

hunting down words

to slay them for

others to devour,

God I love the rush!

let critics eat my dust

there is nothing like the thrust

of ten chopsticks of flesh

into the alphabet soup

that gets me to the

meat of the matter

another poem

to call my own.

and then signed

in a language even

the deaf can understand.