The Writing Life

Saturday, July 14, 2018

It is all coffee shops and typewriters and
thin smoke rising from unstubbed butts

Cigarettes burning silently down to the knuckle
of drowsy, lost in thought writer,

It is ink spent, ink spattered
And ink wasted, ink’s ink; the ink of ink

Curled pages tucked absently into attachés
and hurried through rainy streets
to editors waiting in austere and lonely offices

Yes, it is all of that and also
lost love, hated love, rejected love,
Love in all its masquerade

It is lost family, hated family, loved mother.
Betrayed and redefined.
Writing life is the Loved Mother
of all lives. Yes, it’s the invented mother.

And it is a certain winsome threadbareness
of the blazer with the one seam pulled
of rumpled cotton shirt and denim pants
and out of fashion boots

The writing life is an utterly genuine badassness
that always feels sui generis

but is in fact the same everywhere
both the same, rather, and as
absolutely different

as it seems.

• • •
 

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