poetic nature

never suffer sparse subject matter... 
writer's block is bullshit.
poised artfully upon that smudged
line which barely distinguishes ecstasy
from mental exhaustion
consider dementians
of parallel psyches...
jockey for position
on a tightrope current
ready to snap under stress of
nervous breakdown dream state
land of liberty, home of the free...

it's the numbness thereafter
that worries me.

when god and sex and love
cease to even become problems
or mirrored solutions
on the raw wound of living...
saline salve solution.
rub it in good,
hope the sting brings
back some sensation.
ignore it, hope it fades away.
or you could
buy into the prozac moment.
take two and call me in the morning.
take a dozen and just forget it.
everybody's got an answer...

writers write, right?

so just sail into the american scream,
maybe make a million bucks,
shake dave letterman's hand
after you scrawl bitter words in
blood from the inkwell
of your soul;
while one pencil-necked critic
garbed in superior airs
calls you god-like in your genius
and another ubiquitous little man
in a white coat and horn-rimmed specs
says you're a lunatic.

-- j sheridan fenn ca 1998

Published by Jonah Sheridan Fenn

Nerd herder, word wrangler, working on the next chapter...

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