I’m up early, can’t sleep, coffee’s now brewing. I was thinking about suicide, not mine, but this thing I wrote once in what I later called Goodbye Dimboola, people jumping from a skyscraper, landing with thuds, sickening thuds, of course.
I might go find it, it’s in the green notebook from 1994. Yes, 1994. I thought about that on 9/11/2001, of course. It was much better as fiction, most things are.
The light reflects brightly on this blue ink.
I also typed that shit out thinking there was a story in there somewhere, not understanding, wondering even as I shared it why I would think others would care. A mess. A mess of thoughts and words and feeble deeds, curses and prayers and abandoned creeds. Heroes on mules, fat men on steeds – tilting at windmills popping blue pills.
Really, the ink is bright in this light, it makes it hard to see what I write.
So, now I think I understand again. Now I think I know why I write and why others might. I feel compelled to share it, my shit. I’m different. Ha.
No, really, a doctor told me so.
Evacuate my bowels
Consonants and vowels
Mortar moved by trowels
Or lines of shiny ink
Right on the brink