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…