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 
          overload. 
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 
     irritations 
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