Scribblers Everywhere

Least the world go blank.

Fury of the inward mind.

Moment the teacher turns to the blackboard

from the feral faces. What can’t be said

in person and what can’t be said at all.

First sentence wrong. First word off.

The umbral blot out and spectral erasure.

Doesn’t everyone have a great uncle

who died in the bin, whose papers

are still in the attic, a sort of trans-

cendentalist? And a nephew buzzed on Lorca,

dive-bombed by Ginsberg, who will never

be employed? There’s not that much difference

between writing a novel and drumming your fingers

but try drumming your fingers for six hours

a day for five years! Poetry at least

can be brief as shooting yourself in the head.

Spring rain...bang! Shall I compare thee...

gray matter on the page. It’s easy,

just stare at a blank page until a unicorn

explodes from your brow. Until Rachmaninoff,

until parthenogenesis. Remember

spending all Thursday in your pjs,

only getting out to walk the dog

who voluminously sniffs the epic

of lawn and pole, adding a few pee-cantos

of her own? There are two kinds of writing:

that which has a clear thesis

like too much sun can harm one

and that which makes any thesis a joke,

a rock skipping over a sea-monstered loch,

a spark lurching roof to roof. Let us not,

on our mortal coil, in our burning bean field,

our countdown, forget to praise.

Praise the erupting anthill, the spray-painted

overpass, the inventor of eggnog if we can find her.

Praise what we can’t find, praise spring rain,

praise bang! Apollo, patron of healers

who is also mouse-god of plagues.

The world proceeds with no design.

Design is its paw-print in the snow,

its blast-site, night-light, lost watch,

arranged bones. Design is the world’s prosody,

wreckage and dragonfly, bloom and boom,

its croon. I love you I’m not sure this helps

but it’s written in crocus, the flaming halo

above the birdhouse, monkeys with droids,

donkeys with paintbrushes, breeze over wheat,

excessive vowel open and glottal stopped,

elided, howled, crumpled drafts under tinder,

your lightning’s fingers in the leap

and fidget of my nerves.