type

The Imagination Man

made a steaming pot of coffee
sliding a crisp piece of paper into his typewriter

The machine began to scream
and the keys didn’t stop punching
like a heavyweight fighter
refusing to be knocked out

Even through sickness, critics, and rejection
He kept writing

Putting words on the page was sacred
like praying

A cult leader of one
a master and a slave
in his own mind

Sometimes we live dangerously
This type of living is special
It is the type that can kill you

Owning pet alligators
Skydiving
Dancing on the High-wire
Breaking out of the 9 to 5

Roaming the open road
loving freedom
Not allowing one’s self to control one’s self
Moving by the wisp of the wind

A lost soldier who actually has a battle to fight for
the battle for himself

Unwilling to make plans
living life in the raw

Open to new experiences
all experiences
whatever happens
is meant to be

Eating asparagus
growing alongside the road
and trucker food
that will clog his arteries

Losing time
and gaining it

Throwing mechanical measures away

Developing his own religion
and spiritual creed

The Imagination Man lives by his own law

I’m experiencing life
and leaving reality behind

I can’t be afraid
of being the madman

When I type long enough
I start to enjoy it
One thought leads into another

I can write about writing for hours
It is something I love
And the more I love it
the more my writing fills the holes
in my soul

Heaven is a Place that Kills You
Ease of living
can make you weak
It is the place old folks go
before they die

Young nurses make their beds
bring them meals
and comb their hair
until their bodies protest

Their heart stops
Their bowels quit holding
Everything lets lose
Accepting death

Consider eternity and what it means
When we lose the ability to appreciate life
We die

Heaven could be a metaphor
for living well
but life is monotonous

There is not much difference between heaven and hell
Eternal pleasure becomes painful
after awhile

Like a drug addict
with an eternal high
His choicest drug
cannot satisfy

Even in the peak of his pleasure
the emptiness
awaits
A void
never to be filled

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