Several times a day

I put aside the rest of my life,

turn on the radio, computer,

and all of the lights,

to Bend, Struggle, Plunder, and Write.

 

Across several shelves of

blue canvas binders,

through a small forest of mimeo bond,

yellow pulp pads, and manila folders,

I Bend, Struggle, Plunder, and Write.

 

And any idea,

any part of your life,

is fair fodder under the writer's greedy light.

I'll sell my country,

vilify my wife,

mortgage my children's future,

for one small near‑perfect line

As I Bend, Struggle, Plunder,

and steal the frozen daylight

out of the sky at night.

 

I feel like a cultural contradiction

watching as I write.

 

Ishmael standing on the butchered

head of leviathan

meat red, bone white.

Silver oil running down his arms

dripping on his naked, hairy, ape‑like feet

splayed across the broken black carcass

so one more Boston business man

could stay up late

to Bend, Profit, Plunder,

 

And me,

too tired from the daily battle,

ready now more than ever

for  the deep sleep

and fantastic dreams of a complicated conscience,

I Bend, Struggle, Suck Syllables and Write.

 

 

Here, 

Now!

The hard wire flows,

bringing the raw black juice from some

ancient pillaged Jurassic Tomb.

Here,

the ideas come,

the stars flow.

Here,

I Bend, Struggle, Plunder, and Write