ow (the birth of art)

a blank slate
fell from the roof
and struck me
in the back of the head.

i woke up after being dead
for a long while
and pulled myself up,
first one knee, then the other,

and then keeled over and
staggered up again,
then reeled over
to a convenient stump.

sitting there,
i had the irresistable desire
to write something about
my shattered head

but i found that after all
i felt too good to bother with anything
right then, other than to say
OW, and rub my wounds, and look around

for a stick or something i could use
to scratch on the slate later
when the pain was a memory and i needed
to make something out of it.