Thursday, July 28, 2011

188. A Nagging Sensation

All day long I busy myself
Pushing anxiety down
down
down
into a well
inside myself
like a well made
in a heap
of flour
into which milk
is poured
and stirred
until biscuit dough appears.

I try my best not to think
a million thoughts
at once
racing
against one another
en masse;
the peloton,
vying
for my attention.

I am mostly successful.

But at night when I am
alone
my dog quietly pressing
himself into my side,
my insides
gnaw at themselves
as my
fingertips
fall prey to the
absentminded wanderings
of my teeth.
I never seem to have
enough band-aids,
yet somehow,
I always have more fingers.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

187. Bukowski

"another hot summer night as I sit here
and play at being a writer
again.
and the worst thing
of course
is that the words will never
truly break through for any of
us."


There was a time when I wanted to be a writer. I think I probably still do, but more than that, I feel like that stone everyone's always trying to squeeze blood out of. All those little fuses of creativity keep firing into space or missing their connections, so that I can't make any sense amidst the chaos.

Every day for 8 hours I sit in a cubicle, so busy I don't take breaks and usually cut my lunch short. But the work is mindless enough that I spend those 8 hours dreaming up all sorts of ideas and looking forward to 5:00 so I can trot home and get started. I even keep a stenographer's notebook at my desk to scribble things down in, yet my motivation hardly ever survives the drive home. By the time I get here, I'm so frustrated/depressed/tired/hungry that nothing happens at all. I want to scream. It feels like my own stagnation will swallow me whole and I'm not sure how much more of this town and its 100 degree summer I can stand.

Pacing my bedroom, I pass my bookcase for the fiftieth time, when a red and white binding jumps out at me. I remember Charles Bukowski. And that grizzled old bastard gives me just the encouragement I need.

"writing has been my fountain
of youth,
my whore,
my love,
my gamble.

the gods have spoiled me.

yet look, I am still
lucky,
for writing about a
writer's block
is better than not writing
at all."

Friday, July 8, 2011

186. As Jellyfish

Crook of your neck
Thief of my heart
Pearlescent skin
To feast my eyes
We forget ourselves
Drifting as jellyfish
On a tender sea
Fragile things
In a careful dance
Each of us our poisons
Lying just below the surface