we,

the poets.

the novelists.

the unemployed.

the unnoticed.

all of us writers

telling a story

with consonants and vowels

with rhymes, reason, and rebellion

at times philosophers with no equals

at time salsa-dancing with ourselves

on the fringes of sanity.

why you ask

did we choose this?

why starve, why fight,

why struggle, why write?

well, god gave us seven sins and seven virtues

but us mortals

as we cry out

screaming

speaking against the sun

blinded

by that bright coin-flip in the sky

six questions

is all we could come up with.

five fucking “w”s

and a lone “h”

but we?

we are the restless

we are the lustful

we are the unsatisfied

revolutionaries!

(in our heads at least.)

but it’s a matter of life or death

dream or die, motherfucker!

lest the wanderlust

eat you alive.

so we let god do his thing

chanting 'till his flashlight comes on.

i mean

we didn’t even exist yet.

and not like we could part the sea

or command the dusk to kill the day

so we waited.

we let him make giraffes and chinchillas

as he told them to fuck and make more

giraffes and chinchillas.

then we let him make us.

but that lazy fuck

didn’t finish what he started!

"sabbath" my ass.

so on the seventh day WE said,

—let there be words!

“ain’t no rest for the wicked” as they say

so on the seventh day

came the death of silence

murder by metaphor

because now

we exist.

the ones born to write.

born into this

oh vagabonds of vowels, we!

we are the madmen

wielding dictionaries

thesauruses

we are the innocent

the archaic

i still have each library card from my youth

as if they were something more

than just faded scraps of plastic

because now we have condominiums and timeshares

where the sun used to be.

so all i can do now

is try and answer

those six question marks.

those six marks of our mortality.

i suppose that counted

as an answer to “why” we write.

so now you ask

“who” are we?

“who” are the writers?

we are roses without thorns

we are the drunks, the drug-addicts, the unstable

we are the sober, the working-class, the average

we are the geniuses, the savants, the damned

we are origami roses

the insomnia and the empty pill bottles

the whiskey, wine, and cigarettes

where our thorns used to be.

so don’t fuck with us.

because papercuts hurt like a bitch.

please excuse the rambling style by the way

mr. editor.

and thank you not only for revising

remaking

rebuilding

this disjointed wall of words

but also thank you

because you spend your days

polishing the metaphors of madmen

making beauty

out of oh so many beasts.

helios, allah, yahweh, apollo, elohim, jehova

or just god i guess?

i’ll humor you today

and pick up where you left off.

as i’ve already done the “who” and the “why”

a portrait of the writer

my best attempt to caricature

this chronic disease of ours.

it’s warm

subtle

an ache in our hearts.

it’s a longing for that wonderful chaos

those few ravishing sentences

hidden

in the spaces between our emotions.

sick are we

from the cradle to the grave

with this pain that will never leave us

never abandon us

never betray us.

slow

dull

throbbing

a pain that hurts oh so well.

oh, and as you have probably discerned by now

i am not much for order

so humor me

i’m trying to do math with the alphabet here, after all.

as i multiply each word

upon sentence

upon poem

upon prose

then i add everything

to this A.D.D. of mine

to my carpal tunnel

to my cubital tunnel

but “where” the fuck

is the the LIGHT

that should be there

at the end of my tunnel?

“where” the fuck

have the words gone

when i needed them the most?

still, i can’t help myself

i love writing, i must confess,

though my nerves may burn

i’ll just use them to light my cigarettes.

because all i want

because all i've ever wanted

is for it all to equal something in the end.

something real.

dear god, the “when”

the when is torture.

i must confess for this piece alone

i spent a week holed up in empty rooms and stifling garages

making wishes to the genie of my ashtray.

hoping against hope

drowning the hours

drowning myself

in sleepless nights and menthol lights.

so i read.

and readreadereadreadreadREAD.

goddammit.

'cause fuck writer’s block.

it is a hangover like no other.

from nights spent binging

on cheap plastic bottles

of nouns, verbs, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs

on too many shots of goddamn grammar

chased with glass after glass

of bitter prepositions.

but that’s all past-tense now

because it was all worth it.

i am now typing this with frantic abandon

the words have finally replied to my love letters

as Mahler sings in the background

as the crickets chirp in tune with the world

and the night—

ah, for once—

the night is beautiful.

so “who” writers are

“why” we write

“when” the words flood your very being, drowning you, Noah, and his whole fucking ark.

“when” the words leave you alone with three cars loans, two kids, and one broken heart.

“where” did they go?

“where” shall we elope to once we’ve found each other again?

there are too many things to say

about pens and paper

about typewriters and laptops

about laughter and whiskey

about the blood, sweat, and tears

about the many trite axioms and shallow metaphors

about rare moments of genius and wondrous masterpieces

about every fucking inch of our insides and outsides

about the letters

the words

the sentences

the stanzas

the poetry

the prose

the stories

the novels

the art.

because “what” we are not

“what” writing is not

writing is not anything close

NOTHING

like the facade worn by that final “h”

A LIE.

the biggest of all.

because it doesn’t matter “how” we write.

fuck.

that.

it doesn’t mean shit

how large your vocabulary is.

how numerous your synonyms, antonyms, homonyms,

or just plain old sins are.

how high your IQ is.

how low your self-esteem is.

how drunk, or high,

or stoned, or sober you are.

how much Shakespeare you have digested.

how well you have know the works of Frost, Hemingway, Ezra, or Steinbeck.

how—shit—IF

you even know who Gorky, Lawrence, cummings, Huxley, Thoreau,

or either of the Sinclairs even are.

none of it matters.

none of those things mean shit at all.

because “what” writing is

“what” the wondrous truth is

behind that scarlet “h”

worn proudly by the few

the writers and singers

and housewives and criminals

and actors and presidents

and six-figure CEOs

and even cold corpses six-feet under the stars

who have left their legacies on an 8.5″x11″ canvas

an unflinching immortality

wrought from their anxieties

their desires

their thoughts

their feelings

their hopes

their dreams

their despair

their pain

their bits of rapture

and fleeting fucking emotions.

their entire life savings!

all of it a toll.

the price to cross

this ugly, burnt bridge.

but jesus, man,

just tell us already!

“what” the fuck is on the other side?

“what” could possibly be worth any of this?

“what” does that useless fucking “h” stand for

if the “how” doesn’t mean shit?

“what”

“what”

“WHAT”

is writing?

well,

it’s the only thing

that will always be there to remind us

even through all of this shit

even if the sun explodes

even if the trees all die and the earth withers black

even if the wars of men reduce billions to hundreds

even if the reaper himself is driven mad

overworked.

death

now sick

of death.

even if the deafening silence of nothing

moves into the houses and suburbs

into the cities and sidewalks

into the streets and schools

where the cacophony of car-horns

and the laughter of children used to be.

and though most of it will be gone

most of it burnt and discarded

most of it torn and trashed

most of it used as towels and toilet paper

but most?

is never all.

and the writing that will still exist

will remind those few poor souls

those survivors of an unresponsive god

that the one thing

no crazed man

no ravenous beast

no apathetic deity

can kill—

is “hope.”

7-Eleven

just past dusk

I watched them from inside

standing there arguing

over cigarettes

he was a disgusting fuck of a human being

head shaved bald, shining with sweat

a black sleeveless shirt and

black tweeker jeans

and those weird tweeker fingerless black gloves

she was an old Native

skin scorched to leather

eating something sloppy

from inside

next to her drink on top

of the garbage can

I paid for my things and watched them while I waited for my change

he raised his arm up at her

weak fist

and she flinched

the counter girl gave me

an apologetic look

I walked out and unlocked my door

set the bag on the passenger seat

and he did it again

I closed my door and walked up

to the sidewalk

he looked at me and I shook my head

“What the fuck, man?”

he put his hands up

“Hey, it’s cool, brother. Hard ass day.”

she looked at me indifferently

and put another

bite into her mouth

I walked back to my car and heard him talking low

“You fuckin’ bitch. The fuckin’ cigarettes are OURS, you goddamn hear me?”

I started the engine, he raised the arm again

and I shut it off

the counter girl walked out and said something

to them and went back inside

he walked off in a huff

clutching his backpack in his slimy grip

she watched after him and yelled,

“YOU DON’T WANT ME HAVIN’ NOTHIN’!”

she swallowed another bite

bit the straw and drank

trashed the food

threw her bag over her shoulder

grabbed her drink

and walked after him

I restarted the engine and backed out, took a left onto Solano, drove up my street

and thought about living alone

the glory and restlessness of it

all the good and bad

but at my house

the dogs were there

the machine was there

the night was there

and there was something

young about it

I parked in my driveway and killed

the lights.

I am at a loss for words

Searching for something to say

I scramble

Phrases sit on my tongue

But refuse to leave

Because really

What is there to say?

How do you comfort someone when you cannot say

It will be okay?

Because they are dying

Not years from now

But right now

Days weeks a month at best

And I'm angry

Why you?

Why now?

But I cannot ask these things

I cannot say anything

Except for a pathetic

I'm sorry

I'm fucking sorry?

Really?

All the words in this universe and that is all that comes to mind?

But then again I was unprepared

It wasn't like I sat myself down

And thought of what i would say

Why would I?

I'm not so old as to think it would happen

But then again I'm old enough to know it could

So I'm sorry

Because I don't think there are any other words to use

Except maybe

I love you

I'll miss you

And of course

A few select swears to God

Followed abruptly by

Let's get wasted

Because what the hell

You're dying anyway

I hit the bank and got the cash, drove to the house and carried everything to the place downstairs. The hotel last night was a bitch, literally. This couple was going at it all night, yelling next door, fighting, the door slamming shut, flying open, on and on until 5 a.m. The entire motel smelled liked weed, which was fine, it was legal here now, but for someone like me, a once-a-year stoner at best, I hadn’t made friends with the smell, I couldn’t embrace the burning tire odor. Dog shit all over the back lot of the motel, garbage strewn in front of the doors.

I got us fully moved in, fed the boy and stood in the shower, the high and perfect setting on the spout cleaning my flesh, my thoughts on the last month, and last night’s voices of domestic violence running off my shoulders and into the drain:

“BITCH, YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR MONEY AT! AH PAID THE MOTHERFUCKER SO HE WOULDN'T TAKE YO ASS TO COURT!”

“OH, FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! I’M THE ONE MAKIN’ THE FUCKIN’ MONEY FO THE ROOM! YOU SUPPOSE TO BE THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ MAN!”

The slamming door, then another one of her screams:

“WHERE MY LIGHTER AT?!”

I felt the water move down my skin, and the last year of being out in the wind moved with it. I thought about the last book tour, my Australian girl, my diamond, really, the one who flew over and traveled the coast with me down California from Washington, to Vegas, to San Diego, to her departing flight from LAX. Six weeks of happiness, six weeks of beauty slated not to last, but to be ripped and torn from me, from her. We were the ghosts of each other now, she moved on and I moved on, which was healthy, it was essential. I counted back to the year when the word first found me with its tattoo, with its permanent mark. I was a young man, a cook in Tempe, my fingers weeping into the keys of my first typewriter, the bricks of the room bringing Hell onto the page, the reckoning of worth, the strength in pure solitude. As the water covered me there, I rested my foot back on the stone, and I felt the words start to grip me again, I felt the sentences strengthen, I felt the wind of words and the wind was the world, it reached from Mombasa to Montezuma, from the depths of Mars to mirror the Moon and flow back to Earth. We were all carbon, and the universe was carbon, there was nothing separate between us. I looked down at the floor unblinking, the water falling from my brow, and I remembered everything and nothing, and I remembered the loving eyes of my angel dog, Meg, my Border Collie-Blue Heeler girl, her electric soul and her bones in the ground. It would soon be four years since she left this place, since she left Chico and me behind to sift through all the things she knew, the things she took with her. I thought about the faces of the past, the ignorant faces on the jobs, the teeth of them, the look of them because they knew I hated them, they knew I didn’t share their fears, and they pawned me off to insanity.

I shook off the thoughts and killed the water. I dried myself and let the sorrow of those days go into the towel, the anger of them. Chico nosed his way into the bathroom and looked up at me, his mouth full of food, and I laughed.

I got what the old man was saying, his beet red face, his crippled voice with inflections of rage and hope--and it was clean and true and came from the right place.

I read the broken stories, the words and pictures made. Spinning everyday anger into gold floss, creating of tapestry of reason, understanding and humor out of the streets we walk daily.

Which is better, air or water?

Which is better, sword or shield?

Which is better, day or night?

I cannot answer any of these questions just as I cannot really answer this challenge.

Coffee picks me up when I am down like a good friend. But tea settles my stomach when I'm sick or nervous.

Tea makes you savor the anticipation like a hesitant lover. But coffee is ready from the pour, that dirty whore.

Coffee's bitter bite often needs the help of milk or sugar. But tea is content in its simplicity.

And so you have my answer: toffee

What would the world be like if Hitler was accepted into art school.

Then my mind starts to wander to other potential things.

If the north and south never fought it out in the civil war; if America and Europe the revolutionary war. Or perhaps just a different ending.

What if we knew there were no WMDs and it was all a sham?

What if we never had the dark ages, the witch hunts, the crusades?

How different would our lives be if these things had never been engaged? Would it be better? Or worse? Perhaps a little of both. But at least I would be able to sleep at night not pondering the what ifs of the past.

Sometimes I fear

that somebody

somewhere

might not

be talking

about

me

once you step off the edge of a cliff

you have gone too far

once the words "I love you" have left your lips

you have gone too far

as soon as your fragile fingers slip

you have gone too far

as soon as your nimble toes have slipped

you have gone too far

retreat is a luxury not all of us can afford