I Write to Touch the Sky

I write because my insanity needs a place to live

By Bowie 15 on iStock (image licensed by author)

Another rejection, another glass of wine.
Thanks for the submission the kind editor
of the Bangalore Review writes, unfortunately,
we won’t be moving ahead with this work…
I sit on the end stool near the window, another
kick in my writing crotch. I will print it out
and add it to my other 232, not that I keep score.

Still, I have to write, the story has to be told.
Wrote all morning, no sounds but the pen
scratching on paper and the rattle of the keyboard
as the man with ten typing thumbs attempts
to set it on fire.

Drank all afternoon hiding from the world,
I am a more proficient day drinker than poet,
filled a notebook sitting in a sunlit cafe,
praying for one idea that might make a jaded
editor, the poor woman brain damaged by excessive
exposure to, being polite, self-absorbed crap
created by midnight wannabe Raymond Carvers
like me, maybe nod and mumble, well, this isn’t
totally nauseating. How many sips does it take
to find that elusive thought… I do not know,
but I am willing to find out.