Stories Stories

I heard on the wordy grapevine
From old mouths with lots of time
That experience is the mother of inspiration:
Perhaps a kiss, savagery, or cruel irritation.

Then why is it
That my artist falls through
When I am in cahoots with nothing,
No one, not even you?

My brain hauls itself toward slumber,
Thoughts bland until – ah! Eclipsed by thunder.
One… two… three…
Something has just come from outside of me:
The crystal drop of pure idea,
Elusive to the teeth of fear.

For now it escapes the conscious prude,
Who may flag it wet, ugly, or lewd.
None of that matters in this fragile hour;
I permit this raw seed to flower.

Emily, Emily,
What do you see?

I see birds burrowing deep into the Earth,
Unicorns gallivanting in the violent ocean;
I see cloud-stuffed skies giving birth,
Woodland imps mixing their potion.

Half way to sleep, let’s explore each absurdity,
I mean it – earnestly.
If nothing is found, then nothing is lost,
Another dead idea, another door sealed off.

Is this the child of experience? I think not.
My head tries to cool but my pillow is hot!

Though they afford me no award or title,
These pockets of honest thought are vital
So as not to stunt the growth of one’s mind,
Or to bury what such an excavation may find.

Bypassing that commotion of feeling,
A vision peels away from the ceiling
Into my skull and out of my mouth,
Pouring south
‘Til it reaches my pen
And the madness begins all over again.