I must be allowed the freedom to roam alone about the house, and pick the bits of night that stick like thistles to my mood; and then collect these seeds of thought and germinate the count that disturb the dirt and bloom in dreams and eat them for my food.
I'll wash them down with a barrel of ale fermented from the leaves of books that speak in numbers to release their flavor full - bitter and bold, bubbles of cold that quench the thirst for these: the questions of the quests of men who feel the lunar pull.
Drawn by its power I wander outside crazed by its eerie essence; I feel the wet grass and smell the river call me with subtle scent. Lost like a specter of aimless intent I grapple with my senses; confused by the world inside my mind, I wonder where they went.
Drunk with verse and spinning head I climb into my boat, and point its bow to a marsh downstream where the herbs of wisdom grow. Grabbing at handfuls of clay and flowers threatening to capsize and drown, I head to camp on a secret island and perform for the gods of the shadows.
It's a crazy cruise to amuse my Muse but I choose my words with care, and set them in my fire to fuse and yield a shining bowl that holds the dark and mysterious liquids of thoughts sublime and rare, gathered from the river bank and distilled to their very soul.
This is the only cure I know, the antidote for madness: to get it down and dance it around until it lives on the page. I feel the pulse in the blood of these flowers their euphoria and their sadness; it really doesn't much matter if I'm a fool or even a sage.
This is the moment I create with freedom to forge the new, while using ancient rituals and breaking every rule. Just to stand before the source of time and ask to spare a few minutes to wrestle an age-old question I never learned at school.
7/13/92 Hudson Falls [from Quick Spirited Lyrical p4-5]
copyright 1993 Michael LaPoint
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