May 11, 1998 (I was 53)
Nowadays I sit to write
with whatever purpose for initial motivation
knowing that it is only a game
to get me in proximity to paper
with a pen in hand
and that whatever will be written
has little to do with any thought
preceding the writing
It is a comfortable talent
something akin to navigation
by the seat of the pants
an aptly cynical metaphor
for an activity whose source
is conventionally considered to be
anchored in intellect
No comments:
Post a Comment