Poetry - (untitled)
R--U--OK?
Yeah--Yeah
I txt back
before adding another dozen lines to my
essay. There's a scrap of paper beside me
I'm scrawling lines of a poem that are singing
to me, from the cheap seats, insidious, in my head.
As an afterthought, I realize, I need to tell him something else.
So, I send another
I--haven't--slept--4--days
Frenzied, exhilarated, deeply awkward.
I'm falling. The essay has turned taffy, my fingers are now faltering.
Deep. Deeper. It's dark there. I'm not writing any more.
Not able to. I'm numbly aware - I'm trying to bury it.
Ignoring it. Picking up the pieces of the tune. Coaxing it back
But it's snagged.
This is. This could be - is this? - BAD(?)(!)
It's even inserting clauses,
all those trips and traps.
My head is screaming. Yelling. Insane, echoing laughter, from the gasping deep behind me.
I feel it. Meltdown looms.
A breaker's wave
half piping me towards digital oblivion.
I'm afraid, terrified. I know this is a crash, and I don't want to
LOSE
the epiphany
Lame, but its mine, and I've been charged with sharing.
But I'm in the back of the theater, in the back of my head. Lecture hall HUGE.
I'm in the back row. I can hear myself
only a whisper
haven't slept
it's been four days.
(addendum - I've not posted this in public because I'm currently subbing this to several places, including my own ezine - my staff can't see this post, because none of them use LJ - so if you've got any comments let me know. I'll start subbing tomorrow.
Oh, Bev, if YOU like it, you're more than welcome to run it in S&Q, if you wanted.)