Ride the Line!

Take a ride down the lines of the

old notebook, 

traveled by the end of a pen 

so fine, 

it charted every detail 

of my lost and scattered mind 

dot dot dot

feel alive when I start to write 

I sometimes 

gaze down at the white below the lines 

I write

and the pen will speak 

for itself, 

sliding down the S, 

passing through the A,

climb up and down the N,

and then I stumble across E, again

every squiggle on this page is a fold of 

my brain

every brain I’ve seen on another poet’s page 

is speaking to you today

the same strange haze as the symbols on this end of the page. 

This word can never go here because it’s all the way back there 

at the beginning of this sentence 

to life.

Eh, forget it. It’s hard

to interpret. 

The letter is liftéd, I call it an accent— 

and continue to put the emphásis on the wrong sylláble, 

It wasn’t an accident.

The pen will get you there quicker 

to ride the tunnels of your mind,

on the pages, ride the line

and remember, you’ll be fine

because these squiggles represent time,

how they got here, where they go,

who they might reach, you may never know.