the black and blues of morning.

Do the stars contain a potion for drifting? I’m at the end of my rope even though I have just woken up. The stars of morning, are they out? Has the moon risen? Cannot you feel in your bones when the moon—

A scathing, cutting drop into yourself. The hand that moves across the page, hand winnowed of energy you could not move, it feels frozen shut with the morning air.

Dawn’s boulders begin to move when the sun touches them. The spirits living inside of the rocks incline towards the sun and, once in a while, clatter down the mountain side.

The morning black. Soon the light will fade the morning blue, the deep blue of space, and then brighten. The world, the young world, awakens as it spins and the planet revolves around the sun.

I’m caught in the nets. Morning pulls me apart, and soon a thousand ideas will flow into my brain. There will be the base thoughts: want of recognition, fame, money, an easier life. I burn these things out of me.

The world flows through the tip of my pen this morning. Thick ink, black ink, rolled onto paper at the tip of a pen. Pen a whelk for ink. Jet across the page, do not—

The ocean is crashing again, crashing. I remember when I thought— The tide seeps to my neck. The water moves past my hair. Dip. Brushes aside my hair. Flows in. Needles in.

I am caught in the loop and never escape.

Cold, hungry.

The path wound higher into the mountains. Sun on branches. Lawyer’s wig, the shaggy scales of black ink, popped out of the ground near a tree. See it! At the hill base. The earth spins.

—Are you ok?
—Yea.
—You have some work to do? Are you cold?
—Both.

She toils up the staircase. Every day the skin on her temples thins; every day her eyes lose focus. Her hair becomes more— The water crashes over you. I do not know what it is but I must write it.

What have I given up on life for? To freeze myself in a room? The night hasn’t brightened. Night still hangs on earth.

—What time do you wake up in the morning?
—7:30… 8?
—Try 4:30!
The angry man is a fool of a man.
—I hate my job!
A fool.

The metal cools. Light has spread into the sky. Still black. The fire upon your brain never fades, never recedes. Not for one moment, all of—

The morning black.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s