You don’t just write what you are thinking because how in the world can you trust that fickle jumpy mind of yours. You take the cup and drink the wine. You gaze into the centerfolds of a lush full rose. You listen to what it is unbuttoning inside of you. The particular silences which whisper to each other for all of eternity. Imperceptible to those who fixate on the earthly plane. There are places inside of you where you ache to unravel. To open, swell, billow. Are they worthy, you ask yourself as you gaze into the void. For such a long time now I have thought the answers would come to me if I could just read all the books, ask all the questions, follow the right people. But the stars continue to explode inside of my veins and move their dead energy through me long after they have been blown out like candles with no where left to go, nothing left to do but to disappear. I have become a kind of living after life projected on a vacant wall and trapped inside of myself. They will tell you to let what no longer serves you wither and shrivel up but what do you do with so much death you now carry? Where is it we are supposed to bury the selves we must discard? When I reach for the words they vanish through my fingertips. They melt upon my tongue and it only makes me thirsty for more. The trouble with writers is we don’t often understand when or if we are at the end. If we want it to be over and if we have any say in the matter in any case. We chase the ending like mad dogs but how unprepared we are to find ourselves staring down the barrel of the gun which is a brand new beginning.