I’ve described ‘poetry brain’ to beloved friends, family; the others. (blank faces; puzzlement)
Delicious words always swimming just under my level of consciousness -- below the actual conversations; the actions -- the words forever clotting, coagulating into skeletal form.
When I feel them in my mouth -- when I begin talking to myself -- like a madman (grumbling as if in a cartoon) -- I find any scrap of paper -- having even written them on my body. (palm of a hand)
thankfully, life’s struggles bring the grist -- and without the aforementioned what would I have? —Some stable life? — A first real taste of sanity?
Not an option—
for where would I find the word amulets?
Where would I find the treasure?
I choose poetics.
I choose lunacy --
I choose the ‘dazed man’
I recognize as myself.