why it comes

when I fiddle around with notes,
it is much like when I fiddle with words;
both simply come from the core of me.

most times it is a matter of survival,
other times it is only chum—
a misfire in the dark,
sometimes for a particular someone
but every time for myself.

at times I must wake the Spirit from
deep down, and then
smoke the bastard from
my cavernous innards.
if I am lucky,
it will come
gushing like my jugular,
like a drunken piss—
this is rare, and
so much more valuable: when,
the words and notes,
they do all the work for me;
nothing feels better than
finishing a line with
the next one in your head.

when it comes, it comes,
and that’s the most beautiful music.