Inspiration

He sat on the corner of Ash and 9th
Hoping this time he could call it inspiration but the dogs were barking
And the cicadas were singing out before their hibernation.

It was the summer air that moved him but his mind was trained on
the clouds, dampening the stars, and how when they were backlit they were silver.

He thought back for some feeling to drain his ink for.
Every thought went back to the same old place and that memory was a battered piano.

_played

So he closed his eyes tight and inhaled from his cigarette.
Rubbed his hands on his eyelids and saw the sky cloudless.

But there were just arrays of lights and he never was good at abstract.

Sighing and smoking. Thinking then pacing.

He had it in his head he was Rembrandt.
He had it in his head he was Kerouac.
He had it in his head

Mid April with blossoming trees
And a late breaking snow wiping the slate clean

And
In disgust
He adjusts his halter
Wiggling his tongue around the bit
Impossible

Unmoving streets
As they should be and fast car lights
White
Red

The song of a night bird as the magistrate quieted it
Evicted by edict;
The peace must not be disturbed.
The peace.

His moment on the stage; reciting.
He'd thought up the end line as he walked from behind the curtain.
Detriment.
Debris.

And the bird is caged and he makes a joke and pulls his collar
The crowd is gasping through hearty chuckles.
He slaps his knee with the preacher's fire tongue.

And without GOD you are but man!
And Man. Is. SIN!
So you cannot be man and be in the presence of the LORD!
You must remove yourself from this world!
And remove your soul from yourself!

Amen.

The colors he swept across the page smear with his sweat
And he thinks back to that memory. The day he held in infamy.
If infancy is our purest stage
Than I am impure, for as an infant my hands were clutched
In tiny fists of rage.

And rain down upon our crops with oil and make the land barren.

But the sun also rises.
And you can bet the land will bring life again.