iván BRAVE

Writer

Where does inspiration come from? (A Lyric)

27 February 2019
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A poignant question, and I seem to have but an hour to ponder the thought. Thus I invite you to take your index finger and run it along the cracks of your vanity mirror, get it out of your matrix. This one’s on the penny side to-day. Ride.

 

Is it fair to call it a thought, our quest at question? A plea, perhaps, or pleasure, thought-rot. But must we, yes we must and know:

 

I strive, you strive, to contrive positive (solid) understandings between yourself and another. Lyric we must be, you see.

 

Inspiration, perspiration, condensation, manipulation: two three four to quote a professor from a program I have fixed in my scope. Inspiration we should be weary of, for where does it come, for who does it bend? Nowhere, no one. Pure fixation, bending animal-ization, invention-destruction, piled nouns, summer assumption.

 

The wake of a Humpty Dumbty tum-toes inspires this self-reflexshion. How can a man be so free, how can a writer be so me? Wondering, spinning, ultimate gravity pulling down side-ass ways. Give in. Give up. Give for. Give to. Give us. Give more.

 

Take, perhaps, a parsnip or that penny. Be wise, be clown, too. Let loose. Let go. Let us be, let it see. A tree.

 

Where does inspiration come from? You and me. The things we read. The people we speak with. The trees we hug. The injuries we inflict. The pain we overcome, understand, sideways glance, get through, regret. Ah, and the milk we consume. The breast we covet. The cup we break. The speakers we lay ears to. Lay me down, too, you.

 

Where does inspiration come from? From you, you, the non yo-yo. In spite, despite, the contributions of a heady stoppage, we play and plow through words and mines, stepping awkwardly beyond the ground, out to flat-footed existence, a toy to be toyed with. Yes. Yes! Words piled up, not a smack of care or edit. Where does block come from? Whence the spring? The spit and dry mouth are both the one and the same.

 

Where does order come from? Arm pits. No. Not odor. Hodor. Nodor. Nadir. Aladdin. Sartre. Pile up, scatological or not, free form prose and from it too, freedom three from the pits of despair, from broken hair, the split atom, an inspiration well, well, well. Architecture, symmetry, cleanliness, peace. We seek it.

 

Where does inspiration come from, from comes inspiration where? True. You. Eurt. Em. Evig. For real. Whence comes it? From where does it come? To when is it? From when is it from? Frumpty Tumty tum-toes.

 

Play dance. But ask me why I write or why you do too, you little critter, you slivery silver-backed country-sponsored liver-bellied freckled-faced salamander-slimy diamond doo. Knights, assemble. Dames, dame mas o menos, you.

 

My eyes have never scene-seen someone so knew-new. Live a-live. Live life. Life lived lives lively. Free-domic.

 

Where does inspiration come from? Freedom. White blank pages. Endless night. Skylight. Paintings, freedoms, contortions, twister with a hint of jealous sex, pressing on the subway crowd against the armpits we aforementioned before.

 

Where does art come from? From hew and mew. Better days, better stay. Long lasting night bubble. Starry-eyed peanut gallery. Plenty of plenty-tudes. Dude!

 

Studdering stuttering, sputtering spuddering, paddling pattles, cidy’s Sydney. Organ blows, and so do you!

 

Where does inspiration come from. From malformed mammals. Misspellings, typos, indicative indications, talk talk talk. The first thing that comes to your bread-braid-brain is sometimes the most important scat to be, you see, because rhyme is beyond, order is instilled, the cup still broken, you and I two kids.

 

Remembering a Ford recall, or was is GM, about a million light years of smaller space ago, sputtering or muttering, came the understanding, or perfect union — comes to mind a new idea: the answer to the question on my mind.

 

Inspiration comes from freedom. Comes and comes from openness. Comes from Spreading capital S syllables. But who am I? A no-man in a cave. A caveman in the know. Will you show?

 

Come through, o sacred inspiration. Sing through me, muse, of the man of twists and turns, who cast about a million wakes to understand his mistake, to leave a home unguarded, a son retarded, a wife at bay, a thousand peen missiles like hay, the enemy a needle, Sia in the back singing ’bout eyes, biblical verses coming in surprise, hi, no way, bye.

 

Obscurity, not the name of the game is. Freedom, utter open green field flower meadow running skipping joy is. Once in a while the moon turns its back on the human race, no one misses her, yet she comes back, because giving light is what she does best and revolving around spinning making it look easy is her curse and her blessed blessing, her mixed message, her Promethean ring, a promise, a marriage with the eye, a never let you down kind of love that sings and comes tremendously, in waves, a vibrant color cumful in the mouth and eyes and hair forever and ever, never failing, always falling, all devouring, all destroying, like Swift swiveled with a pen in his hand.

 

Community. Community. Purpose. Purpose. All I’ve got, a gun at my back, a look over the shoulder revealing the mistaken mirage for the empty room, no one there, but a bear-skin display, bare-back slap, congrats. Knut knew a thing or two about Hamsas, the boy, noble man, winning wards. Now . . .

 

Put a baby in a tub, throw yourself out the window, come back to drip dry: art.

 

Study the classics, spin and spin until you feel satisfied, come back to it later, skip beats, break trance, maim the inner demon with a flick of the waist, peg his noodle to a donkey’s self. Watch the world turn. Smile. And smile.

 

Where does inspiration come from? From you, from community, from us, from them, from every tum-tucked underwear, netherwhere, holly gram, bed wetting good idea, you know?

 

Yes, you know. You know. Thank you.

 

(Now reread to the tune of:)

 

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