I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
HOW CAN I NOT WRITE 2NIGHT?
KNOWING THAT IF I DON’T, YOU’LL FEEL A PANG OF DISAPOINTMENT AND HAVE TO START OFF YR. DAY W/OUT A SMILE OR UNDERGARMENTS FULL OF POO. I HAVE AN OBLIGATION AS NICE GUY/Kevynn/ INSOMNIATIC/writer…I THINK. IT’S MY DUTY. I’M SWORN TO A LIFE OF VERBOSE SERVITUDE. Really!
THIS WEEK, I NEED TO WRITE…AND BAD.
TO DO
WHAT I’D DO
WHAT
I THINK
I’M SUPPOSED 2 DO
IF I IGNORED FRIENDS AND THE OBLIGATORY DISTRACTIONS.
I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ANYTHING ANYMORE. I'ts late. I THINK THAT….
OH, I DON’T KNOW…
MY LITTLE SISTER USED TO KEEP SNAILS AND SHE MADE A LITTLE HOUSE FOR THEM. IT HAD SEPERATE ROOMS. A MINIATURE T.V. THE WORKS. SHE’D CRY IN THE MORNINGS THOUGH, WHEN WE WERE GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL. I COULD SEE THE DEWEY, PHOSPHOURESCENT TRAILS SHIMMERING ON THE WALKWAY. OVER THE WALLS AND OUT INTO THE BUSHES…SHE’D CRY. I WOULDN’T SAY ANYTHING. REALIZING HOW STUPID AND BEAUTIFUL IT WAS ALL IN THE SAME MOMENT…
LIKE THIS MOMENT.
HAPPY
FEELING everything
AND
nothing
TIRED
AND
RESTLESS
READY TO PULL THE WORLDS EARS OFF
TO WRESTLE IT
TO STAND ON TOP OF ITS COMATOSE BODY
VICTORIOUS
SCREAMING triumphantly
AND
BEATING MY CHEST
LIKE
A Monkey Thomas Malone
Its time to go to sleep… now...
Though you’re probably already slumbering…
time to go to bed
and
hopefully dream of
me closing my eyes…
and dreaming of …
writing better things than this...
P.S. I forgot to include something...
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