writer’s block

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Welcome to the writers’ block.
I’m going to go for a run around it.
Watch out for the barking dogs
behind the chain-link fences;
jump over the soggy newspapers
left out last night in the gutters.
The sweat has started streaming.
My hair is sticking to my neck.
I hope no one sees me
in my rings around the rosy posy glowing
writers’ block.
Ashes and ashes and ashes and
I am falling down.
My knees can’t take much more.
I have passed the same words
scrawled in strained spray paint
across Miss Metaphor’s
front door too many times;
this door is the solid gate to lost lines
in dimly lit back rooms
sitting on disemboweled velvet couch cushions.
I have turned left on Trochee Street,
left on Ego Ave,
left on Transcendentalism Street,
left on Shakespeare Drive,
left to all my own devices,
pick-pocketed by teenagers
hanging out on the corners.
They offer me false starts
and sickly sweet intoxications
and disappear to some other
more successful burgh
where they hide my lost longings
from their parents –
the published authors
with their leather arm chairs,
with their canned cat food,
with their fresh bakery bread
and full faces.
I’m going to steal from their pantries
in the night when
I can sneak away from the warden
of the writers’ block,
eat their bread with the butter I take
from the pop stars,
wash it down with
politicians’ wine.
I’m going to get so fat off
other people’s renown.
Let it happen.
Ashes and ashes and ashes.
My knees can’t take much more.

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One Response

  1. Wonderful.

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