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Ah, I sit here, Witch Doctor of words.  Shaman of syllables.  Lexical mad woman.  I have, like all of the word smith syntactical Frankenstein’s before me, added a bit of flesh, maybe some skin, a tuft of hair here and there, to the naked, skeletal, two-stanzed deal that I posted a few days ago.  Yes, I am asking you, dear reader, to subject yourself to another of my poems.  I hope I fail to waste your precious time; to disappoint.  And, as always, you are invited to give your opinion.  (If your opinion is good.  Just kidding.)

When the Words Come

Drifting off to sleep,
the words come.
They rush at me
like a band of soldiers.
Hustled by adrenaline,
bayonets flailing,
spit and holler
filling their fearful mouths.
I am forced awake.
Forced to pacify them.

While driving,
the words buzz.
They swarm at my eyes,
my ears,
at the very edges of my forehead.
These semantic horse flys,
ready to bite,
that I am all too often
forced to swat away.

In the shower,
they tempt me,
run in little rivulets
down my arms,
between my toes.
I am paralyzed
by the pattern and pitch of them.
These lexical sirens
humming and harmonizing.
As the soap slip-slides
into my eyes.

Yes, the words come at the most inconvenient of times.

I have scribbled on the inside covers of books,
on receipt backs, and birthday cards
in the dark
eyes half open.

I have stood over the bathroom sink,
dripping little lagoons onto the tile floor,
starting sestinas
in eyeliner on the back of a Kotex box.

And, yes,
to your dismay
I have written on napkins
while speeding down the Interstate.
Letting my hand do its magic
while my eyes
keep a steady two-beat rhythm
between the rearview mirror
and the road.

Oh, when the words come.
Whenever they come.
I’ll give anything, just anything, to sate them.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 10th, 2008 at 8:25 pm and is filed under Lagniappe, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.