The world does not look to writers
for answers to the big problems
If it did we’d all
be living in chaos
We are self-serving
and ego driven at the best of times
But some would
never admit that
They masquerade and
live normal lives and
Write terribly in
the process
They work normal
jobs
Drive normal cars
And have normal
conversations about
The larger problems
of the world
With normal people
Most
Of whom, are the
cause of said problems
And they are
published in some journal
A piece now/then
In some bi-annual
magazine
But they have no
answers
And nor do I
Not a single one
for you on straightening
The twisted wire of
the world
Because I don’t
truly care about that
Or them
Or you
I remain capable
only of caring about my survival and
The survival of
those few closest to me
The all-knowing
writer is a myth of academic proportions
Drowning in
research and statistics
Desperate to prove
their worth
To fund more
publications
Pored over by a
committee and yet
Becoming ash no
later than the rest of us
Proliferating
mediocrity
They endanger the
very souls of those of us who gasp for air
In order to scratch
down words that both defend from death
And carry death
along with them
As finally we all run
out of breath and black ink.