On Being Connected

A writer
Is someone
That writes.

And
I’ve had a hell of a time
Adjusting to life
As a writer.

I think about why I write
I think about why others write
I think that
Some do it for money
Some do it because there is no choice
Some do it without realizing they’re doing it
Some do it without regard for rules or structure.

In my heart
I know why
I do it.

I do it
Because I decided
To do
Only the things
In life
That bring joy
Into it.

And I’ve had a hell
Of a time
Adjusting
To being a writer
That writes.

Lately I’ve been a writer
That thinks about
Being a writer
And health insurance
And car insurance
And dental
And retirement
And what I’ll do next
And what is happening in India
And how mad I am about what is happening in India
And Boston
And my budget
And what Suze Orman would think
And whether or not a scammer
Will seek me out in public
Because I posted where I’d be
On a forum that is visible to
The public.

I’ve had a hell of a time
Adjusting
To being a writer
That writes
Instead of
Forfeiting sleep
Thinking about
Everything
That I should be
Writing about.

So today I decided
That what I lack
As a writer
Is merely the discipline
To numb my asshole
With enough solvent
To keep the world
From prodding me out of my chair
Itching to know
How insane it is out there
And just sit in my own world
That is insane enough to fill
All the white space there is
With what should really be
Keeping me awake at night.

Today
I unplug
And set a timer
For three hours
A stretch
During which
I isolate myself
From what’s out there
And focus on what’s in
This broom closet
With the ghosts
Of my drunken
Heroes winking
From frozen images
Of 1962 when
“Connected”
Simply meant
That one thing
Was attached
To another thing.

“The lamp is connected to the socket and glows bright.”
“My house in California is connected to the neighbor’s.”

I’ve come to the conclusion
That being plugged in
Is like sitting
In a loud café
Trying to connect
To my thoughts.

I avoid cafés
For this reason.

It’s been hell enough
Adjusting to being
A writer
That writes
While connected
To the digital drivel
That is as loud a café
And leaves me
Catatonic.

There is already enough
To think about.

I do not need more
To think about.

Thinking
Is not
Doing
Is not
Helpful
Is no way
To battle the hell
Of being a writer
That—

Wait a minute,
Look at that.

Now this
Is what I call
Being connected.

-DING-

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