the book

by mickharris

i wrote a draft of a book for a degree

and now it looms like the monolith from 2001 

in my psyche

 

how can my own creation haunt me?  they’re my words, painfully scraped out of procrastination

whining

nights spent staring at the computer screen

blank.

i should be proud of them, that they

exist

that i occupied space

that i have a voice

a place

in this ridiculous writing world

 

instead it’s this density, silt filtered from thought after thought

settling

draining

making concrete

solid

dread

 

what the fuck am i going to do with this thing?  i can’t abandon my horrible child,

though maybe i should

i can’t have it sit in a box for the rest of its vile and sullen life

i can’t bring myself to open it, though

coward

hack

lightweight

 

i want to overturn the container, send pages out into the wind and chase them around my parking lot

stomp on this one, no this one over here, it’s flipping slowly

surely something

anything

on it could be good

if it’s so fucking heavy

the wind won’t take it

 

arrears

like a debt

badly ignored.

aggravation

terror

regret

opening to what, exactly?

sibilant ripple murmurs drinking in the fear

scorpion coiled, heavy claws clicking wet and gritty above the depths.

 

 

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