Today I am writing, I write. Like a dog with a rope, strangling the living daylights out of a chorus. Wrestling imagery from thin air like fishing eels. They fight, the bastards. They fight and sometimes they win, take the whole line with them, fishing pole sailing along the skin of the lake, gone forever.
Sometimes a not so far off hurricane. Wall of cloud and rain and berry red sky. The approach. The song cometh. Can’t speed it up any. Coax it out, tie it gently down, try not to spook it. Drifting, skittish, malnourished little creature. Calm now, hush. There you are. There you are. There.
Sometimes the weight is unbearable. Must get lower to the ground, bad day on gravity. Might have to dig. Push the greasy soil out of the way, breaking fingernails on a stone you didn’t know was there. And it hurts. It hurts and I can’t do it and I don’t want to do it because it is mean to me.
Sometimes everything is on the head of a pin. I can’t stand when it’s like that. Gives me a headache. The squinting. The scrutinizing. World on the head of a pin, someone said that before. Sometimes it is a moth and you are an idiot with a lantern.
It’s behind me right now, waiting for me to catch it. Like trying to see your own ears. This one’s clever and annoying and I might ignore it for one that wants to play nicer. It is an imp, a hag, tapping me on the shoulder and running away. When I go outside for a cigarette it raps on the window and waves at me and locks the door. It keeps moving my coffee cup. It keeps saying no, not that chord, not that note, colder, colder, warmer. I might not win. This one could hide from me a long time. I will be haunted.
Warmer. Warmer. Seeking scalding hot boiling lava. The floor is molten lava. Lunch is ready but I am not hungry or I can’t tell. Maybe another coffee or is it too early for a glass of beer. This is today, staring off into space and appearing as though I am doing nothing but the floor is molten lava. Today I am writing, I write.