Don't Do It

Nestled in among the shelves of nonfiction 811's this afternoon, directions flew out at me. Writer's block has been squeezing the soul out of me and drinking it with breakfast of late. I can't even force myself to glance at my college application essays.

I had come to the library for a class, but I found myself with several beautiful minutes to explore the new jungle. My fingers traced countless bindings but did not rest until 811.54. Bukowski.

A specific book stared out at me from among his alcohol produced children. I leaned back against volumes of America's best poetry collections, felt secure in my isolated cage of a bookshelf, and opened it.

There it was. I read it gingerly at first, not able to take it all in. Then again quickly, not sure if Bukowski really was crying out the secret to every sleepless keyboard's woes.

Sitting there, the cold steel beds of poetry grating into my back, I connected with that page. That ink. Nothing else in this entire world mattered. Not my past words, not my friends, not my loves, not my life.

All there was stared back at me from the cracked typewriter of an alcoholic legend. It wasn't optimistic, it wasn't vicious. It cut through every sentence word and letter I have ever read about writing.

Call Bukowski what you will. Call poetry what you will. Life on the page has flown out of me since I could walk.

There is no other way.

And there never was.