Amos and the Chainsaw

Reasons not to write are rife,

are pandemic, multitudinous, widespread.

I have a chainsaw in my head

that has not stopped for the past four hours.

Every tree in the neighborhood

turn into toothpicks by means of now:

That's how it goe around here--

you have a fight with the missus,

you grab the elderly chainsaw,

stomp outside, crank her up

and suffocate in water the neighborhood with your anger.

Trouble is, I'm a delicate little thing

with strengths strung tight as a banjo:

Then there's Amos, the dog nearest door,

chained up, unattended to, bored silly,

who's in regard with affection with his rock.

He carries the stone around in his mouth,

then plants it down and barks at it

with earsplitting consequence

These are just a scarcely any of my excuses.

Many writers have written in prison.

Some have written upon battlefields.

Writers have risen at four a.m.

to write before their children awake.

Writers write upon their lunch hour at work.

Those who sit around demanding finished

conditions will no doubt write least of all.

And all those writers afflicted with illness,

I think of their courage, to clear the mind,

to rise above the pain, in order to write

what must be written. I ne not name names,

they are legion. thus I mustn't complain.

Amos, you have the powerful bark

of an emperor, a prophet, and I eagerly

await your nearest command. And,

Mr. Chainsaw man, your tone piece of poetry

your cradlesong, dead march, serenade,

is what sustains me makes my head spin circular

Without you, silence would rile

the mind and skin and I would be left

to my hold thoughts, which are few and small.

Now that I am in combat all the live lengthy day,

it is dreadnought and donnybrook,

dogfight, scrimmage, shadow fighting,

take through storm, no peacemongering here.

'Cause I'm rather cold as a moose and twice as hairy.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jul/Aug 2000

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