writer's block

venice beach b-ball, mike cole


if there are reasons for it, then i do not know them. wells dry up, maybe that's all there is to it, everything in its season and some seasons there's less to be said. all there is to it, end of story.


*___*___*

it is sunny outside but not warm. breakfast has been eaten with coffee. conversation. afterwards, tea. we wore cardigans and mummbled about getting out of bed. we showered together or alone, standing there eyes closed while she sponged our front and turned us around and sponged our back, kissing this and that lightly. you slept terribly she says and i nod in response. try and explain the dreams but only remember the last two which i can't put into somnabulist-words:

outback station, middle of nowhere, i needed to shower but you said watch for the kangeroos - but were bison, with massive horns terrifying you guarded the door i could see them and inside it was cracked and no windows , like a steam-room and humid and insects and scary the roof broke a mouse fell out looking skinless and naked and ill and

ssshhh, stop stop. so i stop. brush teeth with our eyes closed.

the end someone runs for a lake. i am in a towel and they try and save someone. but can't and actually wait by saving them in trying to shoot them in the hand with a gun dilute red blood all over the no one notices me i stand and watch the bison there too still scary as all f*ck

she swallows water and spits it out on my face and half-asleep i smile.


*___*___*

it is sunny outside but not warm. breakfast has been eaten with coffee. conversation. afterwards, tea. we wore cardigans and mummbled about getting out of bed. and now in third gear the day is probably able to take over and cruise along. ticking at its own pace and timing its own events and managing its own disasters. (and the tea by my hand is cold i just know it is i don't want to touch it to know for sure i'd find that disappointing).

i listen to music and struggle to think about what to write about and what's worth describing because perhaps one ought to just shut-up and live life without narrating it.


*___*___*

notapoem.

we are not children , same as we're not stars nor are we dream-sick carpet weavers or freakishly good emotion-managers ditto not professional ball-players or their highly-payed coach-uniformed decision makers. we, at least no one i know, is a blueberry muffin or a collective unconscious. not vanilla bean aroma or ludicrous court-jesters. we're not convenient-travel same as we're not dependable geography same as we're not patient geology. we are not children, which is why we forget to note when we are scared, and when eventually notice, remember to breathe again (why we are blue as sky flakes and sky feathers and sky rocks and sky). we are not archeologists and we are not catastrophists and our names do not rhyme with cataclysm or discography. we know words now and names now and can describe things like hillocks and shoals and tropical vegatation - which is why it surpises me that we do not know the names of the things that scare us or have information about where they hide in fact we do not know we are scared at all. (why we are blue as tulip smiles and orthodox church roofs and labratory test-tube salt-precipitation reaction experiments). we are not hollywood stuntmen so we are not paid for our bruises, we are Thursday 11:03 volunteers, same as we're not carousel operators or daffodil trainers or stay-at-home-crying-mothers. unless if we are these things.

where are our children gone?, the streets are too quiet with the sounds of the things that scare us and there's not a cartographer amongst us to draw a fear of rainbows or a linguist to dinstinguish a Richard from an arachnophobia or a poet to draw the boundary between a feel like i'm falling from an i didn't know i had landed.