Poetic Incubation

Here wood-shedding in the cave, my mind seems to have gone into an eerie state of suspended animation; leaving words sitting around and chatting as if they were in an induced drunken stupor. When aroused, they seem to rise up and hop onto a lexical merry-go-round; or just sit there screaming as if in a dangling seat of a stalled fairish wheel jammed in mid-air. Being poetically comatose is a revelation of the vacuous nature of spiritless weaving of words void of purpose—whorl pooling emptiness sinking deeper into illusionary nothingness. Pregnant poetic minds do not just exist; rather, they are living realities of the fertilization of fertile wordings anchored in endometrial contemplative cognitive growth. The poem is not merely a mental ejaculation; rather, it’s the result of spiritual incubation in the mind’s womb and when the Supreme Creator deems so, it is delivered: the she-shed and man-cave are mere waiting rooms.