Sunday 4/09/2006 10:28:00 PM

I make these notes in the morning. Microscopic scribbles feigning inspiration. In black ink that rubs against my smallest finger. In my scheduled sobriety.

I twist the caps off bare-handed and jump at the pop. The poison rushing out in a thunder. The lightning cracking in my head. I am my own bottle opener. The callouses confirm.

I make those notes in the morning and by night they're already faded. During my bouts with sobriety I imagine words that might be mine. Imagine myself turning philips head phrases with slotted screwdrivers.

Doesn't the art always turn on the artist? Become his enemy. Drawing gods on torn paper. When the ink is gone this blood will do. Where my affliction is peace. When my muse is gone only then will I change.

Isn't that what we are. Kites being flown amongst so many trees. The long tail with its slutty bows lapping at the breeze. Alluding to a flight long since over.

Looking to those notes then taken as my perpetual oblivion ensues. Abandoned first by myself. Second by them. I the substance and it the user.

Is this art both my devil and my god. To hell I chase it. And to heaven it takes me.

Am I not broken by my own willingness to be. Because this is the tunnel I've always been digging.

Both below and above.

I know only this. I am neither worse nor better because. Only more inspired.

It had to happen. I just didn't know when.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.