The Writer

He squeezed and squeezing thus,
about the quill,
a grip of iron, clutched
gnarled fingers etched and fussed
Black ink did spill
the words this pulp to fray

See now the beaded sweat
on down his brow
The cords of rivulets
from pate flow unto neck
'Twixt beam and frown
his countenance displays

In past, what shames were born?
What losses reaped
this gilded crown of thorns
delusively adorned?
When truth's too steep
for parchment's price to pay

Here lies the writer's lie:
print pressed and prim,
His life's spun alibi,
His false tears' alkali
polished of sin
Beneath ground to decay

In This Time of Night

It's late at night
Really late
and I'm awake
thinking about a lot of things
namely
Kerouac's memories
of the small town he grew up in
and the seasons of change
that shaped him
and the City that drew him in
and the hurricanes
brought on by adulthood
that forged him

In this time of night
close to the hours of the morn
I know that if I begin it
right now
I can write
The Great American Novel
in one great stream of
consciousness
in one majestic session
where my fingers hammer out
with fervent vigor
the sum of me
the theory of things

Artin

I can see where you’re heading
Even before you can
I know the path you’re taking
Because I’ve been there myself
And at times find myself still on it
Trying to find my way back
But you’re young
It’s easier to change your direction
You just can’t see that
Because all those
Apocryphal walls
You’ve erected
Keep closing in on you
And the ringing in your ears
Won’t stop
And all the tears boiling
Out of the corners of your eyes
Won’t stop
No matter how much you try to smile
Because all that raw anger
That you’ve buried so shallow
In your deep heart
Will continue to erupt
And spill over any happiness
You think you’ve temporarily found
Flimsy happiness
The kind that makes you forget
Your father died