Writing is dangerous work writes

the novelist, toxic even.

Toxins rise to the surface of the

psyche while the writer

sits at the writing desk, pen to

paper. It is hazardous duty –

this novel writing he writes, but

alluring he seemingly

concedes – tantalizing and tasty

to flirt with the dirt

deep in one’s own soul. A bit of

a poet, he writes that the

tastiest place of the fugu fish is

nearest the poison.

Novelists sit close to the poison.

Sometimes novelists

fondle the fish dish too long, inhale too

deeply and taste the poisonous

flesh of the fish. This novelist is a

marathon runner who

sweats out the toxins after sitting at

his desk flirting with those

poisons for hours at a time. Do poets

know the danger and cozy

up only in spurts to the poisons and

then sprint away to cozy

up another day like a track athlete

running a hundred,

two hundred or four hundred

meters at a time at

most?