I so often wonder why I should keep writing.

Ernest Hemingway stares up at me

From the pages of a book I am reading

About his life. (Biography.) The more I read

The more I realize how little I know

About him, or about anything for that matter.

So my pen presses on, spilling words

Onto pages, compacting thoughts

From the absurd silliness that is

The cacophony of my "monkey-mind."

(Though in all actuality, I don't mind at all!)

I so often wonder why I should keep

Up with this rambling, ambling, scrambling diatribe-

I wonder as to who will read this

And what they might say, what they may think.

"Publication is the auction of the mind of man,"

Wrote Dickinson so long ago.

I'd like to dwell in that possibility.

(Though never again in yours, leave me alone).

With so many letters, so many words fluttering

In and out of the pages.

I'm still more inclined to follow Kierkegaard,

"The specific character of despair is precisely this,

It is unaware of being despair."

I still write

Indeed.

Perhaps he read Walker Percy?

12/01/2006

Posted on 12/11/2006
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