writer's block

with the lights out, it's less dangerous
here we are now, entertain us

____Nirvana










Morning light, by irwin romain jules arthur


*___*___*

- whaterr you doing? [she mumbles]
- i'm cold [as i rise to step into pj bottoms and a tshirt, then, thinking a little, decide to put on a hoodie too]
- skin is better. i forbid clothes in this bed.
- you hog the blanket, i'm cold. [getting back in]
- psshh. don't touch me with your... clothing.


*___*___*

it's impossible to do know what even just sentence make up wait lemme start again, deep breath, rub eyes, wake up a little, okokokokok:

it's impossible to know what to do even just make up this sentence or know what to wear and where to wear it to and why.
(the song ends, it's a live cover people clap,


*___*___*

these are not our poems. our poems defy words. unclasp meaning(s) like bras. fall at our barefeet. the poets sit in coffee shops with pens that are useless. laptops that just blink. you cannot find a word anywhere to summarize this. there are no poems for us. no songs. no foxtrots, no ritual fire dances. no daydream transcribers and midnightmoonstargazers so when we wake up we see little dots across our field of vision.

(what the hell am i trying to say?)

existence is larger than all this whatever.ness.
god dammit how'd u do it?, every rock i kick hits a miracle i can't think of what tomorrow could bring that today hasn't sweetened it makes me happy enough to lie here and die i'm soo bored and have nothing nothing nothing i want to do anyeverything is just fine i'm happy to lick icecream of play piano or just sit quietly with you and rub fingers together this sort of complacency is exactly the very thing life was invented to snap us outta our daydreams of breasts and clouds and things that move slowly this earth is no place for adagio and lento and largo and grave. (truth is, i have no idea just what very thing this life was invented to snap us into outta and if the daydream is the very very point or the exact opposite of.

banana cake dipped in warm, thick chocolate and the tea is too bitter but the sun is just right so i don't complain and dip my cake in my chocolate and sip and talk and stare off into sunny grassiness and a topless little boy maybe 2 years old runs around giggling. what are you thinking she asks and i shake my head ever slowly and open my mouth to speak and instead, shake my head another once or twice. sip my tea. and let the moment dissolve into the next, where a new conversation will stumble into my mouth and we'll forget the moment(s) that words cannot describe. (or are wise enough to avoid).

(what the hell are you trying to say?)

round here we're carving out our names.

i found my first day hectic kinda i tell her. what? why? what did you do?
- nothing honestly. just sat around. chatted. heard people's stories from their holidays.
- sounds pleasant, what's hectic about that?
- i don't know. but i found it all a little tense. a little... nerve-wracking.
-
- [nod slowly]
- so what are you going to do?
- ___i guess tomorrow i'll start my pills again.
- don't lose any weight, i like you this size.
- [open mouth to speak, but...


*___*___*

nocturniette.

turn the blinds.
but the wind is just lovely.

any chance of it?
oh, oh who knows.


*___*___*

i have nothing (left) to write about. i forgave the past. it packed it's bags and slowly removed its belongings, packing things away and living just traces of dust that sometimes make me sneeze. that gone, i have nothing but empty rooms. i eat and sleep, or want to eat or sleep. and i sit by myself and listen to music and hold pens and open notebooks only to find i have unemployed words. they stand around. Mexican laborers on every other streetcorner in the Valley waiting for a gig, hands holding basketball caps, everything sweaty already even at 7am. there's never enough sleep just kissing and skin and books and movies and food and again, a new day, rinse and repeat. nothing left to say. life is its own beast. resigning to it leaves little reason to complain. i am too old now to revolt. my stories revolve around showers. around noontime sunlight and resolve finally in 8pm nocturnes that are soo mild i might as well write about hot chocolate and empty strollers.

somewhere a car beeps.

my eyelids are heavy i'm about to fall asleep. (again.

again.


again.