\
In the midst of
chopping onions
and digging unnameable
parts
out of the chicken
carcass, before
I'm almost late
getting them to soccer practice
I scribble words
- words that come from nowhere
or from some mysterious
somewhere.
Words that ask, no - demand
to be written down
they are here in the
shower as I reach dripping
for my notebook, here
in the wanting kitchen
when he
tells me about his
day. Here
when I should be
focused on driving
rather than taking
dictation
I am a drunk driver
swerving
from too many
words, words that tumble
words, words that tumble
and spill
and ask, no - beg
to be heard.
Thankyouthankyouthankyou
I say to God
or whatever it is
that sends them
I say to God
or whatever it is
that sends them
I pull over the first
chance I get
so that I don't become one of
those people who kills
while intoxicated and write dizzily
so that I don't become one of
those people who kills
while intoxicated and write dizzily
urgently - I don't
care
that my
hands smell like raw chicken, even this
is a metaphor
for something. I'm sure. After
they all come out
I exhale
is a metaphor
for something. I'm sure. After
they all come out
I exhale
saying out loud to the wind
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
*Photo of me in Taos, New Mexico (where my writing journey really began). Photo taken by Kevin Moul
For all of the times we wish we had inspiration, there are dozens more where it strikes and veers us from our original course.
ReplyDelete<3 to you