The Great Circus

the man said:

“when i write

something devours me

a cloud of great flashing colors”

the poet continued:

“it is a drug monkey

riding my back,

clawing my neck sometimes,

high up,

eventually squeezing my brain”

now who writes?

is it the monkey

is it the man

is it the cloud

or is it all mechanical,

the effort of the man’s hand on paper?

the Master said:

“when the circus comes to town

enjoy it,

do not look too long at any one part

or the meaning of the whole

may elude us”

…anon…