On Writing

The mind full of words empties in spiraling conflagration; all that it knows spills out. It cannot be kept inside any longer and seeks refuge outside the spinning, wet box of brain it soaks in. Out the nerves and down through one right shoulder into a three-fingered grip it squeezes out the prose of expansion, concentration until liberation. Saturating the ideas with stuff of dreams and hints of recent poetry, it delivers balloons popped and let loose of waterweight onto the concrete half-eternities of a single page. Engraving into manufactured bark the conditions of being alive unto dead leaves like dry bones, the two meet and make some strange hybrid of reality, tapping into a world that demands another because it cannot be kept inside any longer. Centrifugal imaginations turn and cannot be forced to turn but turn into characters with personalities and feelings to be felt by yon human interpreters, travelers between the unphysical and yet entirely actual realms of writing. I wish I could.