Everytime. The drawers are yanked open
to reveal scrawled notes and doublespeak.
Images to fill the braggart need.
It’s me. Self-proclaimed writer. I greed
for release. I want confess. I want to kiss
the beckoning vacuum. I want to bleed with my pen.
But do the margins I’ve set provide a spine
for my invertebrate ego? Am I playing tourguide,
exhibiting my deep cruelties? Would you climb aboard
this torn notebook page if I told you I’ve lost the way?
Look behind the wheel, there I am,
Look out the window, there I am again,
leading you back to a memorized space.
Look at me! Hung on corkboard. Published. Named.
Labeled and categorized. Defined at last
and still slouching towards emptiness. Slumped. Wrestling words out,
failure squealing over heartbeat. I opt for a turn,
a second turning cheek, tongue firmly placed within it.
No, a second tongue, one for the mind, one for the pen.
No, an explosion. I explode. I can’t help but explode.
I burn in words. I have burned and I know I’ll burn again.








