Thursday, March 13, 2008

observation of a writer

He hits his fist
rocks back and forth
moves his hand in rhythm with his thoughts
looks away, looks back
he writes on scraps, in spaces without lines
finding the right words
the right thoughts
presses his hands to his lips
he is gone
not here but still more present then most 
his leg bounces
bum, bum, bum, bum, bum
his eyes shift
left, right, left, up, down, back
he is at work
creating, thinking, searching
thoughts are racing
searching deeply
by his look you would never know
clean cut, shaven
clear eyes
college track jacket
the tension is in his slouched posture: pushing, sinking into his thoughts
his twitching fingers moving as if they could find the words
even the nerves in his skin are searching for the words
he leans in, he almost has it
the next phrase, the next word, the next thought- they allude him
looking away
at the carpet, out the window
he is lost again searching
it is as if the words are all around him- if he could find the rhythm again- then he can write
a deep breath in
clenched jaw
shuffling, leaning into his thoughts, pushing into the words
eye brows lift and drop
finally the words come
furious and fast
he is writing as if afraid the words might flee again
scribbling in every corner, ever space of the page
shaking his head
hand pressed to his mouth
lost in his own mind, but more present than most

this is what i saw on the BART the other day. This is a beautiful city.

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