It's in the Blood

It's Friday night.
The bars are hoppin'
and people are poppin'
all sorts of pills,
drinking and smoking
and dancing and fucking.
The night gets into their veins
and makes them crazy.

My veins are stained with ink.

I have four books next to me,
a notebook,
and a pen.
I switch between reading and writing,
fiction and non-fiction,
poetry and prose.

My brother calls, to discuss our plans.
“Am I interrupting?”
No, I tell him,
I'm reading and writing,
fiction and non-fiction,
poetry and prose.

He was reading
a book I bought him
as he has time and time before
for me.
He will be writing soon as well.
Fiction,
substituting poetry for drawing
as I sit reading and writing,
fiction and non-fiction,
poetry and prose.

Two-hundred miles away,
our mother does the same,
reading and writing.
It runs in the family,
it runs in the blood.

Our veins are stained with ink.