Ink Blot

“You must stay drunk on writing so that reality cannot destroy you.” –Ray Bradbury    

    

I wouldn't get in the ring with Ali, or meditate
in the wilderness with Buddha. Nor would
I want to sleep with the whole basketball team.

See, I'd rather box Gandhi and scream
at a mime. And later, touch myself
into insomnia, eyes glued to the poster

above my headboard. But above all else,
I'd love to just sip a lyric laced brew

till tipsy and slur at the slinger to keep 'em                    

coming, until my deviant demise draws

near. The hand's liver rots and blooms

in blotches as if lava were sloshing

beneath. Then my heart explodes—magma,
and I collapse forward, leaving behind
the blot of my face: ink on paper.