Perhaps my brain cells are simply committing suicide. Endlessly jumping out from
the cathedral of my skull, arcing downward at high speed like lightening bolts of thought, discharging in electrical synapses. All of that power generating movement in my fingers, as light bulbs go off over my head, with enough power to light Vegas. Causing me to write ten trillion variations on the alphabet proper, trying to set the gears in others souls turning with the friction of my diction, the manifestation of alliteration, and the distillation of pure thought. What was bottled up inside me, now spills in tiny squiggles, lines and dashes across my thirsty scratch pad. Poetic psoriasis I suppose. Perhaps a daily I.V. of India ink would serve me better, cholesterol free, and it could be manifested, in my tears falling upon the page and becoming works of he-art. It would create a commonality whenever I seize the keys and take flight on an ink jet to the Islands of muse, a perfect joining between
my fingertips swollen with the pigment of writers
and the cargo that is unloaded
from my P.C. Airlines. I used to bleed lead, over war, much like the boys in combat were bled by lead. Yellow No#. two pencils would stencil my sorrows in treasured journals, carried everywhere, lest a thought get by me. I have carpal tunnel
syndrome in my ass, from the thickness of them stretching my back pocket. Now I am a modern man, poet of the twenty-first century. Is it not time hard wire my brain in a direct feed to the mother board. Just let my thoughts be pixeled and instantly decoded from my mind to the monitor as I sit with eyes closed and simply meditate
on my latest work.
Alas we must bleed for our pittance, we must study the suffering of others, and feel envy at joys greater then our own. We must know the passion of love that is beyond words, and the fiery angst that burns all hope. We must carry the burdens of the world in our very souls, and then lighten our hearts by offering a condensed, digestible, retelling in poetic form.
Writing is addictive, It is a sickness of bliss, and I hope it kills me. Let them find my bones, in some small studio enclosure, fingers still pressed on my last word. Let that final page astound them, with ramblings that all the world will cherish winning a no-bull prize, and setting my place
among the greats for all of time. Until then I bleed.... and my only band-aids are you, my readers, my healing.