Henry Miller Faces The Day

SeaVees

The thing flows. HM

Fog pours in from the Big Sur sea.
He sits with a silent cat
in the damp chill of a shabby hut,
pouring blood onto white paper:
the inner secrets of a botched life.
Not therapy or catharsis, but a yowl.
Did he fail or did the world fail?
The world said buy. He said no.
They became implacable enemies.
Living was a circus without fun.
There is no way out of here,
no motive that drives the mighty must.
He is always almost, but not quite, gone.
He chooses the delusion where he lives.
No apologies are forthcoming.
The thirsty page demands explanation
even as emptiness and chaos
define what was, create what is:
the anarchy of a soul never whole,
blood on pages, death by stages.