There might be nothing left to write. I might be losing all transgressions, all taboo. I may have trickled out my last tattoo.
But oh, you. Your combinations and swagger. You stole my future from me.
See, no sentient consumer likes a sentence. Now the sense is in seeing, listening. Ten seconds is nine seconds too long, and I was always one to take my time.
You click and clack and cluck, get me unstuck, find a pathway through my brain without a break or room to breathe.
I mean, songwriters have it easy. Poems need guitar solos.
Still, there is something vital in you, something that tells me our lives are going to live on in myth. Legend without morality in its haloed head. Only poetry, happy to prevail.
It’s late at night. Images reign. There are holes in my heart where the letters bleed out. I tire from the taste of ink.
I feel like a fermata: stretched, when I ought to be held. The more carefully I fire you, the further I get from the target. My subconscious knows I’m betting on something big.
Because everyone’s a writer. Everyone has ideas. Everyone waits for the right time to put chips into the pot, following suit, winning with spades and sales of television shows. Everyone.
Even these lines are signifiers. Ersatz for something closer, some higher cause that might grab me by the hair.
But you’re there. Despite inattention, ambivalence, and an utter lack of artistic skills. I can’t draw a face or come up with a song, but I’ve got you. I’ve got a meter; I’ve got a format; I’ve got a method for ruminating on what gives me meaning, though your consonant arms lack cartoon eyeballs or a quick humorous crack.
Visual’s the mode. But you—
you’re the use of what I see, and despite practice, not practical at all,
yet still my lovely meaning, mine,
my means of making sense of me.