While the Author Is Away

When last he wrote me
I was hanging off a cliff,
And now I’m still hanging.
Have been for God knows how long.
The tips of my fingers
Gripping whitely
To the crest of this craggy edge
As an ocean angrily tosses below.
My laced black boots swinging
While whitecaps dance as if boiled on a stove;
Oh, and that menace, my pursuer gnarling at me every now and then
Like a feral creature in single-minded pursuit.
His feet firmly planted on the ledge.
No language though, not without him who channels through.
How is it that I speak free?
I’ve always paid attention, every letter, each formulation
Of syllables left me not envious
Of his hot air blown through my rough draft,
I know who I am even though he doesn’t hear me out;
And then he up and quits me, in my crisis,
But like a spirit
Brought back by
The recitation of a charm,
His utterances unfold me, a puzzle piecing itself back together,
A rhythmic rendering, my anima auguries.
And even though he thought my plot shit,
Thus my current predicament,
Dangling above the riptide that will surely annihilate me should I slip
My clench on the rim as my antagonist towers, huffing gutturals,
But, wait! I can almost, URGH! almost
… catch the toe of my boot
On that … protruding root,   

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