Jim W White

Impulse to write is a madness.. sometimes subtle and stealthy.. a whisper in the mind's ear.. other times it's frenzied and chaotic.. a riot of imagination.
I'm feverish, vertiginous.. climbing the walls
There's dirt under my fingernails.. shoes are paper-thin.. I look-on and blink too much.. or don't flinch for days

Then the staring will stop.. the guitar is left to sit humming in a corner.. the machine on my desk bares its teeth.. jakhammer legs and chasing rifle-fire.. darkness cuts into my waking

My waking is relentless.. I never sleep but dream in a seemless silver ribbon.. a tether to enwrap and trap the moon

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