Is It Safe

Both One and The Same Thing

End of Day

Nothing stopping the writing any more. Its all been carefully cleared away. Even tho I still draw and teach etc.

But in terms of philosophical or psychological suppressions - worrying and worrying about the work, how it haunted me, daunted me, and how to protect it.

Forever occurs a constant assertion to keep it safe from anything but its own need to find what that is. Even protect it from myself, get out of its way!

I often felt overwhelmed by its sheer force of nature on my dispensibility.

Suppose, end of day, the only genre that comprehensively comes into it for me, at all times, is poetry, including how poetry duly exerts its persistence on the narrative.

Aggress

Writing started as an act of aggression ? the yellow pad…

Riled against what life offered, nearby, as closed in on me, not just the boredom, but a kind of suffocation, for mastery of the mundane, and having to hire out for cash -

It turning into The Enemy, attacking my life from within.

Aggression became a touchstone, and yet one of bewildering tenderness, hungry and defiant. Demanding I coexist with a subcipher hunt for the edgeless, a visionary attendance upon nature of my crime to rhyme, its oddly breeding battlewagon, roaming indiscriminately across eons of meaning that included the living and the dead.

And here and then - flipped, fully swept away any need to escape it.

The dead adhered without need or greed for present tense -

And that thing

That thing — that so often writers have to do, this job that job whatever for cash to support the rabbit.

Existing out in open - as somebody else.

Meanwhile the writer, never gives up its (bordering on belligerent) need to catalyze and source language.

Until, one day — through sheer donkeywork, everything - is allowed in, pried open to it -

Tis all become finally, one and the same thing.