infrequence of sleep is not an anomaly to any writer;
like Ray said "NightTime is the Write-Time"
if i might be so presumptuous as to change that meaning,
for it's the time you and i can sit on old worn-out chairs
whose upholstery is way past half life, sip lukewarm tea
and whatever else is faintly nutritious to our nerves;
and we talk to the screen.  .  . fingertip by fingertip. . .

in our aural state of observance,
we may listen to the be-boppity jazz,
the flighty folk, brazen bluegrass, or
perhaps a serene symphony from silent composers
but no matter the tune intermingles with our
autopilot thoughts,

it brings about a weirdness of the strangest genre
(depending on whom we try to explain our brains to)
and if the partner, the spouse, the family dog or cat
who learns to feed itself when we get a flow goin'. . .
and we call the resulting dots, tittle and scribbles
of many languages by one word, one statement,
one verse at a time.  . . and for no better reason
to do so in the film of a desperately seeking dawn
than to be at a place where no one else can go,
a point of view that we don't expect others to
often understand. . . shoot i jus' 'spose
when it comes to scripting matters of the
burdens and elations and whatever else
we harvest from our souls, we all owe it to ourselves
to go ahead, run the red light of commonality,
and take a breath, then with daring dive down deep,

and explore with new eyes the very thing
that others tend to edit  out of this thing we call 
"The Creation."
 

© 2006 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d 
     
  No matter the place, just go there and write