In Loving A Writer

Posted on: Wednesday, June 27th, 2018

The call to be a writer is louder than anything I’ve ever heard.
I wanted control, so I wrote the words to a closed-off world,
And it made me difficult, invective to unbind,

For there were three of me,
Maybe plenty, maybe unreliable,
And they each all desire a conflicted completion, shared down to the ineffective spleen

Of the yogi booty that fits in a cup, rinses by the towelettes,
And novelettes all marked the red and grays of what-it-says-abouts, what-become-of-its,
Have so slowly, so occasionally down climbed.

He was a professional who could never love a mindset as unfixed as mine,
The brink of a book so used to a comfort I could never intervene,
And the sand is running out, and the lady leery bishops’ orations juggling blind.

I threw the book in indignant resignation.
It fits the weather. It fits the bill.
It may have come to a surprise to others but it reeks of spiritual dieresis to me.

I paused quiet and collected myself in a bag, and fixed
Myself an opponentโ€“ a pyrite, a tin cry, and I trained, and I try, for
The call to be a writer is loudest I’ve ever heard. I drink

The blood of my Asian Christs in a brusque flask, christened. The dust
All moved across to the emptier room,
Soon wasn’t as fervent as was remembered, but still screamed.

The screen thunders:
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer!
My tired body rests. My tired body emerges.

 
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