I can feel my heartbeat like a felt-padded kick drum, beat beat beating as the first light of dawn comes, waiting and vacillating, with bated breath, the caffeine and the vitamins have not come into full effect yet, but they’re their, their waiting to spring on mental prey, as I wake as I climb to the summit of the day, and I attack and I write and I get verbose, as I swallow more B, dose after dose, and I let it course through me, I let it sluice down as the funk and the fury all gather around/  as witnesses to the words that I’m spitting, it’s the beauty and “the sound of the atom splitting”. I can only write what I think I know and  love, what draws me, what scares me, what wears me like a glove. Not that I’m saying I’m controlled or bound, but paranoia can descend and come swirling ’round, so I beat it, I cut it, I fight it away as I move into another sector of my day, one with sunshine, then rainclouds, then water on my face, as I take a short break in inner space.  But I can only type so much before I burn out, and realize there’s only sludge shooting from my spout, so I take a step back to see what I’ve done and realize I’ve been writing, but not much has been done. Ummm, “done” and “done” are not true rhymes, or bard of typing too fast! ha ha ha

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