*a poem

Awe the edge of the brink
The outer core the inner lip
The end, the rim, the beginning, the tip
Stretch to it and leap taught my friends
Like a sinew of a violin string
A buttered guitar sings
And drum pads into a dream
Fauxplay to a sin of passion
Brings me to a written attack
My inner muse
And phantom woo
“I want” writing never turns out good
Crouched, hunched, hot
Hovering over keys
Fingers poised for attacking
Like lions teeth in jaw in bush in nail in claw
Zebra skinned screen await me
While I work throughout my day dreams
I come home every so often
Channel clear and rid of maudlin
Poised to write and type my way
An understanding found
In that day
I simply MUSt do it you see..or rather read
I cannot let these words spill
Carelessly
Back into the cells they emerged from
I MUST write to calm the spirit
Errah-rather livin it up
In a torrent of pulsing rythyms
Unknown and fresh
Filling me from toe to breast

Em.k Dec. 31, 2007