Wednesday, July 27, 2011

187. Bukowski

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

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
for writing about a
writer's block
is better than not writing
at all."

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