Wednesday, July 1, 2009


I'm sitting here,
at this childhood wooden desk
my usual hangout, and I'm thinking

I want to spell the poetry of Man
but I've got to go to bed.
I want to scream the secrets of my skin
but I've got the go to bed.
I want to dish on the dreams I've been having,
I want to fish around in a puddle of words,
I want to take Truth, Gonad and Amnesty
and turn those three words into the
Nobel fucking prize for literature,
but I've got to go to bed.

I wanna talk man,
but I've got to go to bed.
I wanna whisper strange incantations that I composed just to sound cool,
but I've got to go to bed.
I want to stay here all night helping the Universe realize itself
through conversation with the sky and my offwhite keyboard:
"Hey bro, I'm you, you're me, everything's gonna be okay."
But instead, I've got to go to bed.

So I close up this laptop, I take off my socks
and brush my teeth wishing teeth didn't need brushing,
and I climb in bed with a pen in my hand and a notebook under the pillow.

And when I wake up, that notebook is full of human souls
born scribbled in a stranger's hand.

See, whether I'm awake or asleep, I don't have to worry,
because my process doesn't stop.
You can't kill my creativity,
you can't beak my pencil.

So I'm going to bed.

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