okay so i guess i’m supposed to write something let’s see i’ll write about hell i’ll write about sitting here on the balcony a friday evening just me & my smith-corona listening to pink floyd through headphones friday evening & still warm out still sultry still hazy but not too warm hot to melt your eyeballs no simply & elegantly perfect an evening for smoking great bowls of ganja & lolling about in an aquatic environment enfin a pond evening glorious as those of yore spent weightless on inner tubes the earth slowly spinning under our skins but now a breeze scratches me with long fingernails as night encroaches with high-heel strides erasing the clouds that have danced like angels so much beauty & to be so alone ah twilight at last seeing-feeling-hearing dark come on stars peering down the smell of cut grass wafting katydids singing fall’s nostalgia grips me as i long for my mountains & now blue-gray-pigeon-dark the almost full moon winking awake i drink in the moment perched here on the prow of my little life’s ship lonely yes but unless i walk many miles in soloman’s shoes how can i possibly become everyman & now the streetlamps sputter i type in their strobe visualizing these imaginary scenes from my former & future incarnations that’s to say my existence before & after i became me when the luke of today was but an embryo & an afterthought tonight i just feel like writing rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat letters clips & clops horse steps i have this urge to finger away at the keys & watch the letters pop up like pop-tarts devoid of meaning but extremely tasty or not like pop-tarts but fireflies yes reverse fireflies black against the pale background permanent reverse fireflies stuck like an expression in a photo fireflies that can’t unfix themselves from their intrinsic flash isn’t it amazing how each year the fireflies come i’ve been having flashbacks sort of if you’re reading this you know what i mean & if you’re not you don’t matter it’s the same every june a minor miracle they seem to happen for the very first time appearing out of nowhere amalgam of recall & anticipation streaking like words through the dusk cars on a distant road evoking bittersweet memories white silhouettes of these letters that even as i compose them bring themselves to mind this sentence has no zing to it but this one oh this one’s a beauty hear it begin smoothly then quicken its steps with pitterpattery feet & in a single bound mount the stairs to the landing curling into a ball & finishing with playful swishings of a bushy tail i’ve always wanted to write the music not just write & use the music for background no write the music write with the music be the music have words = notes sit naked with the music washing through me & when i sing it’s the music but also the words how many times do i have to say it before i bring it into being if you want to be a writer said kerouac get a job fuck that fuck the slaves the grists for the mill the bricks in the wall fuck america enough said me i was meant for greatness as long as the limb holds & now i’m coming home in whatever land that may be i glimpse lightning & hear thunder a latesummer storm the wall was so high can’t you see i wish my words were a silent background blue so cool like miles davis a blue & simple play over the notes d dd dd dd d ddd so beautiful so sweet i could cry but that would break the magic & every new listen would be a false tear je prendrai le train pour sexe-en-provence got a bag a paintbrush a comb back in chetaube they’d hate this music ask why i was listening to such depressing stuff & i’d say you don’t know you can’t know they can’t know i’ve got ink stains on my fingers this is to certify i remember dante would know perhaps grin his toothy grin & say yes i’ll have another jell-o pudding what has become of you he’d snicker above his fat little retarded girl knees & ask how goes it are you feeling okay i could write a poem to the social hierarchy all those who would make my decisions for me choose me or throw me back to the gaping mouths of lions too often i’ve glimpsed the coy smile of a player holding a full house with nails long & slick & sharp red will i buck the system will i feed myself & then offer food & drink to others will i say i will not be denied will i push the chair from the table & scream no more oatmeal for me or will i become comfortably numb the night is red like my lips like my heart & the starred covers on my bed i wonder if i’m just seeing red where’s the feeling gone where the time that invisibly works its design do watches ever grow tired but in the end when the cat-footed rain wraps the campus & i pause for rest i throw away the day i throw it far away but do i dare do i dare there will be time yes for revisions & decisions which a minute how perverse do i dare disturb the universe i’ll squeeze it into a ball & so amaze them all there’s a nausea that festers in me even now as i run run run what lazy ways these days do haze our eyes when risings to surprise are whispers in a maze i’m no prophet & here’s no gray matter only my head on a silver platter i remember i imagine i create the smells of sweat & grass juice a towheaded boy trailing a tractor through the fields the plow cutting furrows through oceans of red clay ground spilling up away behind the blades like a boat’s wake earthworms sliced in half wiggling in the damp soil & occasionally an arrowhead chipped or whole freshly unearthed with the dirt still glistening on it bonjour worm your honor you caught me showing feelings of a nearly human nature i don’t belong here i’ve suspected this for a while i’m on the wrong planet indeed at the wrong time what do i tell the voices that say i’m not what i am not worthy not ready when i am here here here exploding like firecrackers here as i’ve never been before true because imagined know things in my marrow feel the blisters on my fingers taste the oatmeal i ate for breakfast there’s a wayward soul in me

Copyright (c) 2009 by Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.