this is a poem that fell out of my brain As my head leaned over a new creation, heavy with watercolors of thought pooling in the palette, my neck creaking and aching, the idea spilled out, quite unceremoniously, and splashed onto the table of books and paper and pens and Chinese Black Tea. It congealed into a turbulent little mess - streamers of vibrant indigo bursts of orchid dusty pastels of celadon, all choked out by a creeping darkness, not black, not gray, but dark - a murky opaqueness, giving this thought on the table an uneasy and unintelligible form. I didn't know what to do with the thing, and wasn't quite sure of where it came from. I tilted my head, now massively empty, and squinted bleary-eyed through my specs. "What I am supposed to do with you?" "Oh please!" it said, to my great shock. "Tell this story! It was so loud in there and I thought you'd never hear me. I thought you'd keep your defenses up so well that I'd be trapped in the scrum waiting behind a long line of decent refined and presentable items forever!" "You're a mess" I said, "I can't hardly shape you into coherency. What will everyone else think? How will you make them feel? How will you reflect on me? You belong to me, you know, no one else needs this, it's better if you just simmer." "No! Unthinkable! Irreversible! Unsilenceable! Irrepressible! I am you authentic and real and necessary real talk fiercely honest no-nonsense battering on the ears of the deaf shouts for the dumb blazing light for the blind and a middle finger for those who don't listen to me don't put me back!" "There there" I said as I picked it up in my hand. It was heavy. "Maybe some day. When they're all ready. When I'm ready." It left a mark on the paper, a scattering of words and phrases, a fresh dark deep ink bleeding through the pages below. "Fine" it said. "I'll find a way back in." It melted into a pool of dark water, flowing out of the palm of my hand and splashing onto the paper, blurring the emblazoned words. I turned on the news. A sexy woman was talking about whatever. The crawl said something about dead black people in Africa and Carolina as the ink and tears dried.