Why Write

a sort of ars poetica


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Why Write?
at first I did it to get my dick sucked
later I did it to get famous.
the former for me is a once in 5 years dream,
the latter only happens for a Stephen King
After the illusions vanished it occurred to me
that we can reinvent anything,
biographies and sexualities included
in the transformative marriage
of art and craft
in translating the heart’s secret hieroglyphs
we can scribble down wisdom beyond
that of the conscious self and that’s pretty cool,
that gets me hard, and jerking off to my own work’s
a lot easier than seducing another to suck my dick,
a lot easier than sucking enough other dicks to get famous
I think writing gives us a buzz like no other
As writers we’re fairy godmothers
words yearn to be written into new voluptuousness,
to have their bodies perfumed, their tresses
adorned with flowers
and we as writers grant those wishes
and in return we reap the power, the joy, the despair
of such granting and reaping
Through the lens of a poeticized night
the real night’s darkness can be lightened
poems can comfort readers in the midst of daily shit
stories can be friends as friends flock and scatter
Something more seductive than moons, mushrooms
demons or whores is what a magical fragment
of language can dream of becoming
In writing a poem or a story
we conduct strange orgies of words.
Satyrs prowl down the page
in search of nymphet sentences or images.
the genitals of vowels and the lips
of consonants swell and moan
our secret names.
With the stroking of keys
or the flourish of a pen
we drive the money changers
from the temple, upset expectations,
make assumptions do headstands.
The dwarf gets to be king,
the hunchback gets the girl,
the bag lady gets to sing like an angel
and dance around in a queen’s crown.