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Friday, September 17, 2010

On Writing



On Writing

I take my beatings for not fitting into molds
for not following instructions
for doing my thing
for doing the wrong thing
then I start writing
I lose out on opportunity and love
lose cash and prizes
gain something back
lose it all again
get another chance
they keep coming
one after one
sometimes
two by two
or even
three by three
but, I keep writing
I take flight into the world of no certain destination
moving like a target that is hard to hit
near misses and head on collisions
almost take me out for good
almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades
so I keep writing
I get cut open and live with scar tissue
get shot and it is through and through
my spleen survives it all
my liver falls for hep
fire water burns my heart
I get run down by wheels but get up later
the breaks heal slow and crooked, but they heal
I watch others not be so lucky
I keep writing
I watch others get born and buried
funerals in fields and ashes spread on oceans
I feel my friends blood seep out quickly
leaving me behind with open eyes of shock
I wake up next to a lover who dies in the night
I find another in a hot tub of her own blood soup
I watch another die the slow cancer dance
I hear MS stop a beautiful heart
I sit alone in silence for days
I keep writing
I make many friends for life in my travels
the dope takes so many
the violence and the prisons take so many more
drunken driving into nothingness like
darwinian angels of mercy takes
my little girl away while I
languish in a cold room
on a steel cot
puking my forgiveness
into steel toilets for two
I keep writing
I hear warning shots from invisible guard towers
in my restless sleep forever
watch indoctrination into death
for believers of an honor that was
betrayed long ago by human greed
I keep writing
I ride trains across midnight prairies
hoping to become dust devils above corn fields
as I look at the Brooklyn Bridge become
the Golden Gate become an old stone transom
across the Mississippi River that I walk across
alone after love is just a dead cat that I give
a viking funeral to with lighter fluid on a guitar case barge
in the dark cold river below
and I have to keep writing
I have to move my fingers
across the page even when
they are bloody and broken
or cramping into claws of
eternal damnation that tells
me not to quit or give up or
give in I just have to keep
writing
even as I sit here writing this
on a laptop in echo park
not knowing what will
happen next
listening to birds
dogs in the distance
helicopters in the air
I am moved to keep my fingers moving
to keep writing still
in case I missed something
that might be catching up to me

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