Three Quick Lines
Each day I stroke three quick lines across the top of the page on a yellow pad along the fold the already-folded-back pages makes and then I lunge into my daily outburst of wounded love, whacky assessments, prophecies, pleas and pleasantries.
I’ve been at it for god help me decades now and I calculate that spliced together end-to-end these kick-starter razor-thin lines will reach halfway around the world or at least over the Cascades to Seattle, the current of all those Shards and Short Jabs pulsing thru them like an electrocution, slashing forests and crisscrossing freeways, leaving a scarlet scar across humanity’s collective unconscious.
Not everyone can lay claim to such a literary distinction. I stand alone or rather sit alone, leaning over a yellow pad braced against the steering wheel, cigarette burning, ballpoint racing across the page.
They don’t give trophies or grants or even a faint nod of recognition for this kind of lunacy, this bloody consecration of the invisibly sacred, but wait until I lay this pen down for good and begin splicing those lines together, wait until then and watch what follows in the bright explosion of light on the western horizon.