So here I'm again with my writing.
That illusive nomadic muse
that comes charging from the unconscious frontier like a ravaging horde of Mongols,
to lay waste the card-house empire
of my conceptual mind
is back now to dance on the damage with me,
well at least for one more clumsy time.
But nowadays I have to venture
deep into its sweet resting place,
drag it kicking and screaming from out of its bed
and then slap it till its wide awake,
just to nail down its dancing convulsions
like Christ on my high forehead's cross.
Oh, but make no mistake from the shape of this mask.
Know my muse it is always the boss.
Each one of my comatose projects
that had lain there so dumb on their backs,
half-formed, like thalidomide babies so long
are now spread like a thousand card hand
of poker dealt out by the dealer
who is my sweet imprisoned muse.
But I'm beguiled by all the wild jokers I find in this deck that I've so much abused.
All the brutalized, ink-blackened pages
that had crunched themselves into soft balls
in the killer womb inside my frustrated fist and to warm smoky freedom had rolled
away on the underground railroad,
conducted by garbage truck crews,
well they're back now to fight through my memory's court for their fourty pages and a muse.
Yes I'm back once again with my baby
that had swum for so long in the womb,
and the ultrasound films of that boring process are continuous echo-reruns
on the nightmarish Walt Disney channel
that plays in my subconscious mind,
providing the vaguest reflection of me that my ego could hope to design.
It’s my fantasy's one-sided quarrel.
I won't have to avert my eyes,
and there's no counter-wit here I must circumvent.
There's nobody to tell me I lie.
So I'll lie in here all by my lonesome,
just soaking up in my own brew
that’s so warm and so deep, I just might go to sleep in this alphabetic-stupor-stew.
I use this typewriter to hammer
a hole for myself in the wall
of the towering mountain of purposefulness, and my voice as a beckoning call
to call you all out of your caverns,
so I can then investigate,
and comparatively determine the size of my own spread of surrealestate.
If you've all been knocked on your asses
in as many good and bad ways,
then you're fattened by memory like I have become,
and writing is one way to lose weight.
Cause experiencing and teaching
are two halves of one breathing process,
and those of us holding a lungful of life can now pass on that eventful breath
But our tiny minds can't seem to handle
Sensation's chaotic crossfire
that charges the electrical circuitry of each moment that challenges time.
So that’s why we cause them to mutate
and bleed into future and past,
diluting them into a thin "lady's drink" who's tall volume might cushion their blast.
Then we sip with the greatest of leisure.
Hope and memory's candy cane straws
reweld them back into a plastic moment, merely flawed by some surgical scars
that run like a railroad track border
between these two nations at war,
whose dividing line is as hard to define as the one between ocean and shore.
Yes we tend to keep our lives separate
from reality's smashing sea
with dams made of bones from our clinking closets, and amnesia: the sealant between.
Then we prick that dyke-wall with pinholes,
to let just a little bit through.
But its high where the wall's thin enough to be pricked & the footholds are so very few.
and most of us are far too lazy
to climb up to where its that thin,
and less of us have the digestive system that will hold that effulgent-juice in
long enough so that when we do spit it
deep into some young, thirsty mind,
it won't be so rich as to make the kid sick, or go down as more grape-juice than wine.
But in my life, the grey, knotted tapeworm
that is my excuse for a soul
keeps me stealing that blood that’s been barely tasted
from that foaming-toothed vampire’s hole,
that serves as the garbage disposal of prayer, and of blessing, of curse and of sigh,
from who's lips we read the equations of time, and who's nickname is simply "the sky".
Sometimes it takes years of rewriting
to translate one moment in time,
and though the translation is never complete,
it might unveil a piece of my mind.
and almost just might count for something
in writing, as in hand grenades,
which though they fall short of the targeted mass,
But I write cause I don't have the courage
to sit, or to stand, or to walk in peace,
so I mirror these black fireworks inside me with a crude voodoo-doll
that shields me from most of my demons,
but is also a fisherman’s net
to catch them to serve as the ingredients in my diet of dark-angel flesh.
Its a parachute serving to soften
my descent through solitude's space,
that bottomless mind-shaft of boredom and fear that I tumble through from day to day.
And I fall through these out of time moments
with or without pen in place,
wrapped up in a mirror-lined crystal cocoon
that will give me illusions of space.
But what sails me away from one island
of boredom becomes one in kind.
So even though I get a sense of focus,
lining up with a moment in time,
its too bad it isn't the moment
my body is feeding upon.,
but a moment that hangs in the perilous air,
no momentum to carry it on.
I can't seem to hold my attention
when ideas fly in large flocks,
but the counterbalance of this difficulty is my flexible method of thought,
and a talent for seeing the order
that lies in perception's "Outback",
which renders me so much more beautiful than the rest of you cloven-brained hacks.
My acrobatical circus-boy mind keeps on seeping through all of the cracks
in conception and emerges triumphantly
as a glistening penis-head buck.
Yes I'm raking the sky with my antlers,
and their explosion frozen in time:
a quicksilver ejaculation that sprouts from a well at the core of my mind.
My thoughts are slowed down by my writing
just long enough to be shocked
by their image reflected inside of the page,
and for one fleeting moment be caught
like deer staring into car headlights,
just long enough to be pulled
back inside myself to become the soundtrack of my dance for the Calendar Girl.
They go back in myself,
orchestrate the striptease
of my internal Calendar-Girl.
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