Writing--Chris Crittenden

roll foam that shrinks
to stuff your ears,
where it expands to cork noise
and catch pulse.

sit
on an electric chair
or crag of Golgotha
while slyly forgetting
you’re almost bored,
a little tingle
over a ditch of thought

where anything could happen,
but that’s a cliché,
you can’t write it down;
but you do, defiant,
knowing at best it’s a handy lie,
not art.

pause, hope, cuss.
try not to constipate the flow
as a cushion numbs your ass,
and you struggle to cry.

you’re not sad enough
to surf epiphany.
fate won’t grant
your lame tachycardia
a spike.

you want it too much,
as a Buddhist would say,
or not as much as a Protestant.

when finally done,
the young prince of ink
foresees his own tragic death.