the mystic, they say,
swims in the dark waters.
the drunk emerges not
from the same dark waters
that he seeks for his own salvation.
is the difference.
the writer is subject to the frailties of each.
always in the dark waters, if he is doing his work.
able to swim sometimes.
helpless and about to drown, too often.
frailties, colds, depressions,
continuous anxiety, sleeplessness,
insubordination with authoritarian tendency.
a walking bag of nerves about to explode.
looks like a normal person to many, though.
two eyes, two ears, two feet. pairs of two.
attraction, those waters are.
we jump in
away from the monotonous ground,
too often dried, cracked, meaningless,
like an abandoned railroad town that hemingway’s
nick adams walked through—
the periphery of the sea.
so dark waters invite you.
the sirens scream.
you see alcohol drugs art on the shoreline.
then we put on our bathing suits.
the mystic is attracted to the dark waters, as i say.
and the junkie goes under, too often, the lit glow
of the cigarette end, the last thing to go.
they can’t even get that thing out of their mouth
then, those crazy fools.
the writer’s a fool like these two, and plunges.
the majestic force of the word saves him
the majestic force of the word saves him – sometimes,
that is, with the negative attraction
wanting to catch him, too.
and sometimes he joins
the wrong company of swimmers.
Carl Kavadlo is a poet and short story writer. Some of his short stories have appeared in the Long island University Muse. His poems have appeared in Erato, Stained Sheets, Rogue Scholars, Brownstone Poetry, Clockwise Cat, Flutter, Mobius and Miriam’s Well. He lives in Brooklyn, NY with his wife.