Often I wrote because I was lonely,
and foolishly I sung my ego that others might believe what I did not,
but I am not Dante, not Kerouac, am not fit to start shit, but I
am also still full up with love, am still aflame with desperation,
will still cry out and throw myself again again
down against the divine and diamond anvil,
to bang off whatever net of gems
the river of crystals that is the Word
has knitted in precipitation and sloughed off on its banks,
encrusted like catgut through my forehead and shoulders,
whatever crystal the wind has woven and cast before me, swine I am,
that, I will give thanks for and can write.

update 6/17/13

maybe..

when I’d get lonely as a kid,
I’d sing an ego so others’d believe me because I did not dare believe myself,
so I am not Dante or Kerouac. I am not fit to start shit, but
.
I am still all full up with love, am still aflame with desperation,
and still cry out and cast myself again again
down in against the tongueless diamond anvil
to let it knock from my mind and its mouth and lungs
.
off my body in a spray of sparks and gems
a few catgut knots of conflict strung through all my limbs,
through the muscles of my being from pupil to sphincter.
.
for however sharp the crystal the wind has cast before me, swine I am,
for that, I will give thanks as I consume it—
by little else do I presume to speak.

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