Literary Genius

When he wrote,

his stuff

wasn’t half bad,

the problem was

he was more in love

with the idea of writing

than he was with

the actual writing itself,

so he hardly

ever wrote,

it tired him out,

it bored the hell out of him;

it was too much

like work.

Besides,

his mind was like a squirrel

on steroids,

he could barely

hold a thought

for more than 10 seconds,

so when he did write

he had to type fast

before the moment

was gone,

and he couldn’t type

worth a shit,

so he almost

never captured

the idea floating

in his head,

somehow

the translation

was lost

between his brain

and his fingertips.

So he mostly

sat and fantasized

about writing,

with rock n roll music

blaring on the headphones,

but every now and then,

if he was ready,

and the moon

and sun were aligned,

and he hadn’t stuffed

his face with junk food,

and the music was loud

enough,

and the energy level

was high enough,

and his wife didn’t

have her period,

and the house was clean,

and his dog didn’t

need a bath,

and there were no

aches or pains

in his body,

and there wasn’t

anything on tv worth

watching,

he’d catch the wave,

and the words

would spill out

like some

giant puke machine,

flowing from his

fingertips,

plopping and fizzing,

sizzling hot,

and for a few brief

seconds;

wow!

he was amazing!

but then

as quick as

it began,

it was all over,

he’d usually fall asleep then;

it’s not easy

being a literary

genius.

.

.