Friday, December 13, 2013


I'm a writer. Writers write. If a writer doesn't write, they are no longer a writer; they become a ... er... I don't know. Perhaps I answered my own question. One doesn't always need precise punctuation to communicate an inquiry. That's why this work exists; The question that I am a writer. And this post is a flawed validation of a false-found identity. Scrawled notes on a torn cheap napkin are not a testament of profession, just as an infant's screams are not worthy to be for the director of music with stringed instruments such as the Psalms of King David. Neither did my papa or my Abba introduce me to others as "This is my writer, who I love." Instead, this is a self-imposed, unfulfilled prophecy I have declared to myself; a stick of dynamite with a wick I shove toward toward gun powder.  And with a half a dozen full-faced moons having looked over my shoulder asking, "What cha got there?" To myself, I wait for the 13 days til they turn around, but I'm not that impolite, so I tell them what it is and what it will be; "Nothing new."

I've got nothing new. Sorry to disappoint.