Write.
Calling forth words from above,
beyond.
Isn’t that the goal?
Not to produce, no,
but to usher in.
*
Searching the
edges of the known universe
where the creation is very old,
and the view is clear
and true.
Putting down onto page
that which can’t be denied;
that which smolders and compels us
even through our calculated distractions.
Sending us to the pulp each day,
swords unsheathed.
Drawing out inspiration with
ink made from primordial ooze and
the sticky residue of our collective unconscious.
*
We are destined to spend our lives
vainly attempting to translate The Real.
A never-ending battle with clumsy, filthy hoards of words,
desecrating the holiest of our holies;
while we lie on our faces
at the foot of a cold, marbled altar—
grasping,
Begging to be worthy
to express what she has showed us
when we weren’t looking.
*
A trickle of my will runs down
my back.
This liar,
Language.
She taunts us with a calling,
then laughs at us without mercy
as we beat our heads against
the walls of her limits.
And only when power is depleted,
fear laughed at,
ego exhausted,
does she come.
*
Sometimes she arrives
direct, and commanding.
You take dictation from The Source.
She flows like electricity,
a current of truth.
You cling to her with whitened knuckles,
trying to keep up for as long as possible.
*
Sometimes, she comes slowly,
surrounding you like warm honey;
infusing you with the understanding
that makes sense seem foolish.
You release your relentless thinking
into a slow river,
running its course.
Creating as she flows.
Making the truth,
not simply abiding by it.
*
You know it, don’t you?
The sound of her call.
The whispers in the pre-dawn
that insist you cannot rest
until you say what must be said.
*
Those of you who are celebrated, and
those afraid to show us even a single word.
We are a kind;
We attempt the impossible.
But we do it with a secret knowledge,
tucked deep inside our chests
and hidden from view.
This thing we do, and our need to do it
Is exactly
Write.
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