When my pen lost its mind I did not bury it, Excalibur, in its rock grave.
I did not weep, or toss a flower into the hole of absence, though it was
more intimate to me than the women I loved.
Divorced from its spirit, it became the organ donation
of a queen to a field laborer, a sword turned into a spade,
as I continued to poem in an inkless ether.
O old jewel, who now signs checks and wastes my balance,
and pays the rent to the proverbial Jew!
I remember you, and I, your black blood on my hands,
the launching into paper, the precipice and the free fall
as I stare now at this faux page of snow,
looking deep into a chasm that out leaps me.
This keyboard is only a whore to serve a purpose.
You are the only flesh of my flesh, one helpmate to the unbegotten,
once plough to my fallow ground.