sometimes i'll go weeks,
maybe a month,
without writing anything at all.
then, out of nowhere,
Apollo himself absolutely
wrecks my shit, without warning.
i'll spend the next 24, maybe
48 hours coughing up clots,
spitting teeth like a dying man.
i mean, ain't that just
what poetry's all about?
blood too bitter to swallow.
divine intervention in the shape
of knuckles and crowbars
and broken bottles.
air too rough to breathe.
inspiration in the shape of
red and black and blue and
so so much suffering.
if, from pain,
meaning is found
then, from meaning,
art is born.
