A Study of My Ideation In Three Sonnets

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①

Perhaps it is cartoon instantaneous, this genesis of creativity,

            or like molasses through an IV drip                  (patience).

Perhaps it comes fragmented, this promise,

            or inexplicably blueprintwhole.

Perhaps it is a puzzle that is both lock and key.

Perhaps it is a wakeful dreaming,

            or a dreamful waking.

Perhaps it comes from all around you,

            or from somewhere deep within.

Perhaps it is a magic that doesn’t care if you believe or not.

But why you, you tiny god?

            Why is it yours to catch this magic,

                          to conjure these worlds?

                                        And did your god ever imagine a world where he didn’t exist?

②

It was —     the belt tied tight in the closet.

                    the medicine cabinet washed back with the bar.

                    sharp and bright in the bathtub.

                    a two hour drive in a closed garage.

It was —      stolen from one of my dad’s safes, taken orally.

                    a brick wall at ninety mile-per-hour.

                    cold and deep, then warm and deeper.

                    something that flew, and then didn’t.

③

And it always starts like this: with the doctor, her paper, the pills.

            Then my mouth becomes a satchel full of scar tissue,

                          scabs over, runs dry, atrophies.                                                           Is this paranoid?

            Next my hands, transformed into my great-grandmother’s,

                          the highways of these digits crossed over one another in too-sharp turns

                                         unable to hold a pencil, your attention.                                 Is this paranoid?

                          Next is my head, all stuffed full of dirty secondhand bedding.

                                        And last go the words, my god! the words.                           Is this paranoid?