I gutted the chapter
because it was downright hideous.
What the Hell was I thinking?
That I could turn this macabre piece of bird shit
into something that was a joy to read?
I felt insane. Defeated.
I might as well jerk off and go to bed
but I was a fighter
because God never stopped pissing on my soul
so I went through it all again
slashing, hacking, mutilating
sometimes screaming as I did so
but I cleaned it out good
and then filled in the blanks
with something that made sense
thinking the whole time:
why was I a writer?
Why the fuck was I a Goddamn writer?
I would never be anybody. I was shit.
What a momentous waste of time!
I pounded at the keyboard
drank some wine
next thing I knew it was four in the morning.
“Jesus wept!” I cried.
I had to go to bed
so that I could wake up early before work
and work on this chapter again
because I was a lunatic in obvious need of rehabilitation.
Writing was a hard line to sell
even to yourself
even for all you other writers out there.
I don’t want to write safe.
I want to stretch out and
bleed across every damn page
and when it’s finished
I want to feel that I have
truly left something
that was a part of me
as harrowing as the process
might be to myself
because why else
would I really bother
picking up a pen
unless it was to dig it
deep into my chest
and let it just bleed
freely and openly
Monday is a duplicitous treacherous whore
a midnight murderer (you’re next -it will find you)
a useless begging in a dingy alley
Monday is going to kill me kill me
just like my brain -dead
just like my soul -dead dead dead
Monday is an old man
that doesn’t want to get up
from behind the counter
in order to serve you a pack of cigarettes
Monday is a beautiful girl
without a soul
or a friend
Monday is a late cheque, a mechanic’s estimate
a slamming door, a hung-up phone
a push, a shove, and sometimes a fist
a hole in your shoe or the side of your skull
a sister on crack and the
sewer that just ate your keys
Monday is a waiting room full of uninteresting faces
or a cigarette burn on your cheek
Monday is the spineless coworker
who just won’t stop complaining about the boss
until you want to brain him with your industrial stapler
but won’t because you would probably go to jail
and then Monday’s
would be the least of your problems.
I usually despise Monday’s
but today it’s a special mixture of resentment and
my gut is still rotted
from Friday night
I can’t find my phone
and I’m stewing at my desk
like bad soup
about my untied shoelaces
This is for all the times
that you stubbornly wrote
tired, half-drunk, drunk
in-between doing other things
because you haven’t had a clear day
just for writing
and it was always rush this rush that
looking at the clock for compassion
where there was none
writing on the backs of receipts
or on a napkin at the pub
because you couldn’t stop
and you end up throwing out
most of them anyways
but you still do it
because something inside of you
tells you that you have to.
this is what makes you a writer
and no one else
can tell you any different.
You are most vulnerable while you are sleeping and it is for this reason that I give my bedroom a thorough inspection before I am satisfied with my surroundings enough to lay down to rest and this is after the routine perimeter check of the household to ensure that all possible entrances are firmly secured:
I will turn over the pillows
to make sure there is nothing living under there
check under the bed with a flashlight
for God knows what
open the closet doors quickly
in order to surprise what may be lurking inside
and also look behind the drapes
because you just never know.
They say that you grow out of things.
That’s a lie
although granted maybe some things you should
but my imagination
has never been my friend
and it begins to question me as soon as the lights go out
as to whether
something might crawl into my ear
to lay eggs in my brain
at some point during the night
or whether I would open my eyes in the midst of sleep
to find myself
staring into the harrowing face
of a dead child
or entombed under a blanket of frenzied spiders
perhaps buried alive in a wooden coffin
in some field nobody goes to anymore
or duct-taped to a wooden chair
slowly regaining consciousness
to the sound of a maniac’s chainsaw.
Late at night
these become valid questions
and I believe that my methods
may have proven effective thus far
as I have never awakened to find myself
strapped to a metallic table with
aliens clinically examining my genitals
with missing limbs
or fully encased in Jell-O
and so every morning once I realize
that I am intact and unmolested
I will go about my routine
like an absolute hero
knowing that I am safe for another day
as nothing horrifying had happened to me
in my most vulnerable state of sleep.