The Blackness that Brings Light

I’m not a gloomy down in the dumps bummer

of a friend type usually. But often when

I feel like the writing is really ready to flow,

like the Muse is ready to rock and roll

it’s the downbeat of a rough idling

’68 Dodge Hornet with broken lifters

kind of mood that gets my ass in the writing chair.

Often times I need the broken glass

and festering wounds rubbed through

an indifferent godless universe

to bring out my best work.

That last desperate pint of rubbing

alcohol filtered through a loaf of

bread and poured blindly down the

raw burning throat of my soul is my

creative impulse’s elixir.