Where the Pen Takes Us

Every poem is a journey.

Don't quite end up where you


Ain't nothing wrong.

Nobody said a thought process

should be any less fickle

than its art.

Tickle the stanza

with bullshit

and watch it fall apart.

I, for one

will romance it


with guns to the

looseleaf's temple

and watch it

sweat out

incremental beads

of brilliance.


I've got no time

for an empty sheet.

And I sure as hell

don't plan on

shooting Blanks tonight

under the heat of


Make my mind race.

Take me where

the blind face death in the eye,

my sweet


Transform me.

Beginning to end

with a pen in hand

before I

shred you to

papered dust

and take a hit

of your crack.

I am slave to you

no more than you call me back.

The thought-train

has disembarked

at the End of Time

and I see the black

of closing rhyme...

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