run while you can

Lightening, enlightenment, and a stroke.

Want not. East High. Madison, WI. Summer 2012.

I don’t believe in bootstraps.
Or blind faith.
There is only luck.
Only work.
Only idleness.
Only these three.

Let’s say you’re writing,
writing the perfections that spew from you.
Like loving remarks, candid slips.
Like pus and shit and piss.
The sweet nothings, happy endings,
all the misspoken moments.
The rawest, purest, most organic truth,
so local it lives within you.

Now return to these remarks,
your so-called ‘writing,’
a day later, a month, a year.
They’re all incorrect:
bad grammar, punctuation-less,
a whirlwind of unbelievability.

But the truth is still there.
Only idle.
Only working.
Only a stoke of luck.
And realization.
Everything ends abruptly.

Go ahead, good copy. Mickie’s Dairy Bar. Madison, WI. Summer 2012.
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