Inside the Rabbit-Hole

I have searched for years for an answer,
a rhyme, a reason, description of a season.
Studied the masters of the craft, sought out
unknown pen-pushers, ingesting . . . digesting
each word in order. You can only eat so much paper

before you make noises when you walk,
stumbling, mumbling lost in your thoughts.
Hearing everything in 3-D while taking notes;
filing away lines . . .  academic fines
nothing comes out right when you live with a critic.

In notebooks which came from the wrong kind of trees,
I can’t even think in the right color ink.
Ideas wait in line to take a number, organization;
of the editors . . . predators I’ve incarcerated
in the cerebral prison of my voice,

buried beneath a pile of aged pulp;
pages crumpled, funky clothes rumpled,
sitting cross legged in a forest of flattened trees.
Clock just keeps ticking . . . old dog’s licking,
wounds fresh and raw. You can only eat so much paper.