The sun warms my back, seeping through the layers of my leather jacket. It marks a sharp contrast to the damp, cold bench beneath me.
My lower extremities lay in the moist shadows of a chilly spring, while the rest of me is shamelessly basking in the rays of 8 a.m.
Birds flit about me, trilling the gossip of nest building and plump earth worms. They flutter and fuss, the swallow eyes me wearily- I am too close to her nest.
“Peace sister,” I say to her softly… “Just an early morning poet, you have nothing to fear.”
I came here with an empty head, an empty page… Both are filling quickly with the marching lines of thought.
Like an invading army at the gates, they mercilessly pound upon the walls of my brain.
Slinging arrows madly, pouring on the boiling oil, I fling decapitated poems back out to them… A warning of what happened to the prose who got too close to a staving notebook.
“Bugger off,” I say to them, “Unless you want to become like these little rhymes here.”
They are not phased, they merely continue their ceaseless barrage of my conscience. Slowly whittling my resolve until even my pen is swayed by the pretty words, begging his mistress for release.
No longer able to resist, overwhelmed by the shear force of this attack, I comply with hesitance to the incessant prompting.
Perhaps the problem lies in the lack of coffee. I’m thinking with a bit more caffeine in my belly I could more readily fight off my brain. As it now stands however, the tiger is a weak and mewling kitten when faced with the sharp teeth of accumulated moments.
“Golden haze, another morning feels like yesterday…”
White flag, belly up, I surrender. Conquered by a black tidal wave of ink.
Surfing this one is out of the question… In this dry sunshine, I strive just to keep from drowning.