I am the debris of a poet.

I am the debris of a poet. I once had moments to plunder through consonants, fighting to understand why resonance always seemed so distant. The fight to ring from the belfries of my fingertips, to echo into mouths and across tongues seemed to me, to be the only reason to live. I wanted to live to hear myself soar across blank pages and I wanted to fill the spaces in between lines with my reckless foresight.

There's a goblin in my belly. Or a gremlin, or a ghoul, something grotesque that irrefutably starts with a g, because g is for gigantic and gelatinous, and grandiose. It's gone deaf in it's left ear from trying to shoot it's own head so many times and missing, the shrapnel just landing amongst sinewy tendons and rushing platelets- and dandruff.

No matter how hard I want to ring, to unfreeze my knuckles and kneecaps and cords, there's no such thing as subtlety.

I am the debris of a poet. Imploding from what I'm assuming is the reverberation of epic narcissism.

Every window in Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco.