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Where the Pen Takes Us
Every poem is a journey.
Don't quite end up where you
start.
Ain't nothing wrong.
Nobody said a thought process
should be any less fickle
than its art.
Tickle the stanza
with bullshit
and watch it fall apart.
I, for one
will romance it
sincerely
with guns to the
looseleaf's temple
and watch it
sweat out
incremental beads
of brilliance.
Perspire.
I've got no time
for an empty sheet.
And I sure as hell
don't plan on
shooting Blanks tonight
under the heat of
proliferation.
Make my mind race.
Take me where
the blind face death in the eye,
my sweet
melody.
Transform me.
Beginning to end
with a pen in hand
before I
shred you to
papered dust
and take a hit
of your crack.
I am slave to you
no more than you call me back.
The thought-train
has disembarked
at the End of Time
and I see the black
of closing rhyme...
