I knew there was a reason to get up.
It was in the middle of the night,
the cat was scratching at the door.
Before I knew it a poem from Bukowski blew through the speakers saying:
‘well, you want to be a writer’
and I let the unasked out of my
heart, mind and mouth
and the gut,
another 21 grams piece came out,
and again, that feeling of belonging,
It’s that tender, fragile, so easily missed, in this greater and greater rushing world.
Glad I caught that butterfly, at least for a little snapshot.
Now i mention it, this is the second rush in a very short while,
sometimes things just can’t come to an arrival, crystallization,
the next there is a wave with nothing else.
I long ago come to terms with that, in a way,
no, this can not be bundled, packed, orginized,
into 9 to 5.
tonight? I’m getting used to it,
my least favorite life slowly wakes me up this time,
it can’t always be yesterday,
and my mind wanders about the past
like the time someone stole the glittering from my eyes …
although I asked it back,
it never got returned to me.
But that is quite ok,
I found it recently in some casual talk when asked about creativity,
broken wings perhaps, but there it was again, some tinkle in my eyes,
and for just a tinkling bit of time, everything is ok.