I’m questioning the effectiveness
of these bolts of lighting
and wondering why the cozy aftermath of a fresh idea
doesn’t rend life into an instant pleasure cruise.
These thoughts and words
that scream through wombs of thought
only to come to life as
locked chests full of written gold
shackled to my ankles
as I attempt to run life’s races.
I’m stranded in the desert with
the manuscript of the great American novel
and nothing to drink.
The peaks of desolation:
searching for those first words that
can make an epiphany into something
other than dead weight
Living forever in this moment:
A lover taps their foot
and gives hostile eyes
and you have no idea
what it is you have done wrong.
The blank page as an accusation
of an epiphany still in translation.