it seems i’ll always have to share this chair with my cat
he’s my companion, like an absent wife or girlfriend
always wanting something.
it’s too early to be up,but then, those of us with the touch don’t sleep much
we like to think it’s cause we’re special,
but really we’re cursed, nothing more than apes along the ladder of evolution.
sometimes it would be easier to believe
there are gods looking down, mocking us
setting us up for their own entertainment
but the only ones watching us are the cops, and the spies
they’re waiting for something else ya know
it’s less glamorous though, those everyday aspects of life,
like taking a shit, shaving, or eating a donut
and then there’s writing,
first a blinking cursor, pause, and hopefully revelation
when the words flow like this, it usually doesn’t make any sense,
but i’ll find a use for it, and if not it’ll get shuffled away
on the hard drive, rantings for a later use,
filler perhaps for the secret book.
i’ve had these weird dreams of transformation
like i was almost part of someones else’s art
drifting in and out at all the wrong moments
i’m constantly struggling with what good art is
but here’s the secret, there is no “good art”
it’s all subjective, personal, and usually garbage
until that beautiful moment when it means something to someone else
it’s a good start at least..a teaser of things to come
writing hard is like fucking, an inconsistent rhythm, necessary release,a sense of accomplishment and sometimes…, of self
it’s hard to reconcile the disparate beings in my brain,
the hermit, the hero, and the megalomaniac, constantly at odds
it’s like being on LSD that’s a year old,less potent but still strange,
as thoughts drift like echoes from the back of my mind.
the hermit is stronger, he always has been.
now i’ve begun to notice my facial hair is a bit too long,
scratchy and mildly irritating,
and i see a touch of grey upon the head,
wisdom perhaps or just a sign of the inevitable