Ideas flit in

and out

of my mind

like a monster’s tongue.

I need more sticky

to catch the fly.

It’s easy to forget

a good idea.

They’re buzzing around my head

in the October Season

I don’t want to die

(I sound like Wilber, from Charlotte’s Web)

Theories

can be something to live by

but if they don’t work

they will die in you.

The writer says

he needs experiences

to have inspiration, but he could spend a whole weekend living

and not have anything to write down.

The absence of life, doesn’t mean the writer can’t write.

He usually writes about death, or death in life.

The need for travel, for war, for pain

is only an excuse

not to write

because

when you come back

you will find

the words don’t dance any better than before.

People are too careful

They don’t have madness

They are slowly disappointed,

even when they slowly succeed.

The fast lane

is for the few dreamers

who don’t want to inch along the freeway

like worms.

The lives people live

are desperate

in their happiness

and unhappiness.

Watching people die

becomes boring.

They weren’t special in life

and death didn’t make a difference.

A man knows when he is special

when nobody is around

and there is only the sound of his genius

a light-switch flipped-on by God

and even though he gets tired

he doesn’t want to turn-out that light

because it’s easy to break things

or to shut them down.

It’s hard to work for hours

with joy and hope and belief in what you are doing—

That is the artist’s dream

and it is so much bigger than anything, anybody can give you.

Life is temporary

like music that stops

our feet that no longer dance.

Is art meaningless, if it’s destroyed

like a sandcastle, when the tides come in?

Maybe, art is a measure of how you are living…

So, unleash the dog that bites

and train him to sit for hours

writing.

Unmask

the real man

and teach him

to live with his ugliness.

Unhinge

the careful mind

and give it a lever to lift the world

with words.