this is not a game
for the thin-skinned
or the faint of heart…
the overly-sensitive will
be eaten alive
chewed up and spit out
like bites of rotten fruit…
they will crucify you
hang you on their crosses
of judgment and despair
sneer at you and your
words
with a cruelty that will
rip the pen from your fingers
or silence the typing on
any keyboard…
its an insidious game
here on the horizon
the buzzards stare
from every fencepost
you can be lunch
or blown to bits
as minefields dot
this literary landscape
claws grab for ankle
dragging you down
through their mud and sludge
and often through rivers
of your own
bloody runoff
Hey, It’s time to give the critics the ole’ zen koan to meditate on: What is the sound of one finger standing alone in the forest?