justwrite 27 march

If brevity is the soul of wit an insomnia bouquet is the toast of longwinded writers winding their way through the dark kissed by ragged lips caught on uneven edges hedging bets and trimming the limits we swim it back and forth that supernatural river the one in that Ginsberg poem that’s an allusion to mythology just like this has been its own allusion it’s the truth in bloom and scattered like pollen all over the polling places where daywalking dreamers squirm in unlikely awakeness the states of twisted worry hurried along their own singsong alarm clocks signaling the end the end the end when really it is only the middle and hardly even that far anyway I am writing to tell you there’s nothing to be done about the schedule and the meetings are unfit to be changed much less held at all we’re pulling the thing together with string and tape in the first place and there are people who talk as we know as we go deeper into night the glories of those storytellers grow and we know we are little in comparison with think our words so shallow we wish for daily bread instead of all we can eat we meet makers of our own design and feel finally this is it we’re scattered like ashes while still alive still waiting to arrive waiting still to thrive on some unexpected wreck of an idea to grow and nurture along with success the rest of a haunted hope gasping with pleasure at the tiny green leaves as it breathes into a slightly brighter shade the got-it-made still far away but the hope something to hope after even if there’s not enough sun even if the candle’s done all it can for the night and the shadows fold in we’re holding cards and shuffling the deck’s got all hands and no waiting the feet meeting some resistance stumbling forward into the after the timelines skewed and the blinking lights used to the disturbance simply do their best to rest when no one’s looking I am cooking the kinds of foods that ought to be good for you though they don’t do much for me and I’m free for further developments and I’m keeping my phone nearby though the calls stall out and the space here is in no way clear for take off making off with the goods and unsure of whether they might be bad it’s a stab in the dark the sweetsick of insomnia gathered in its flowering strength