I hate writing with a dead line.
I hate it.
I like writing when ink is
leaking out of my skin.
That’s the kind of writing I like.
The heart starts beating to tempered
The sonnets come easy like
girls in the movies
The anxiety seeks shelter
when the pen hits paper.
No one is safe when the kid with the Bic
starts letting the ink, thicken
and bleed, grow like fungus.
Write me a letter with squid ink.
Tell me what to think.
I write you into a hole,
Hog tie, and ride you out of town.
I’m the rider now.
I’m the writer now.
I’m the sick kid with the squid ink.
I’m the devil with the details
The kitchen’s sink, watching
Like clock work.
A dead line. A dead line. Dead
Remembered like Bukowski.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.