Arise From the Container
It seems to me that I have spent too much of my life,
Trapped like a mouse in a pickle jar.
Marinating in the brine of self-satisfied reason.
Insisting that the world I’m in makes sense.
Afraid or unwilling to stand,
Accursed, callous, coarse, and confused,
In brilliant discord, ridiculous to all but myself.
Against all good reason and without a trace of mal intent.
To say: “Throw your rocks at me you sinless whores.”
And insist it is you that must throw the first stone.
Inflamed by passion devoid of fear,
Doing what I do for the joy of the flight,
Of reason, fancy, ideas, or passion.
And I not caring which,
Should stand, should strive, should try…
But instead, I simply sit and write.
Crossing no swords or stakes with which to kill evil.
Just quill or pen I raise again.
Knowing without thinking,
That it is only half of a half of a half of what I could do,
If I could only open the lid.
—R. Scott Anderson, MD
Meridian