and I lie down in my backyard
and I live in the fresh air
and I write
And those things and people
that are worse than nightmares. . .
I forget about them.
It was the most frightening, confrontational
sight
None of the monsters - -
None of the knife-wielding maniacs
from my nightmares
Inspired half as much terror
Giving me sweaty palms and paralysis
Images - - forecasts of rejection slips
Mechanical jobs, prefunctory money
Keats and Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald
high and haughty
Haughtiest is the guy who sat
diagonally from me in creative writing class
whom our classmates called
Our exemplary "literary genius"
who didn't like my stories
These things, these people -
they looked out from the pen I held, saying
"Who do you think you are? What are you doing here?"
And the pen only scratched the paper,
not transforming it
But now - I take my empty notebook
and I lie down in my backyard
and I live in the fresh air
and I write
And those things and people
that are worse than nightmares. . .
I forget about them.