I lost a poem
on my way home
from work; I
lost it at the second
intersection, when the light
turned green, as the
shifty words folded
collapsed upon themselves
from my consciousness,
took their leave
I lost a poem
can lift this weight
that is my heart
it cannot be spotted
no matter how hard you try
it needs its only anaerobic
push, reps and reps of
high impact intervals
to metabolize its deadened muscles
more salt, more grunts, more
counts, more oxygen -breath-
more fervent wishing, more
-deep, deep inhale-
to get back
back on its beat
regularity doesn’t seem to be my thing
my poetic self operates on a different reality
a clock lacking a face or hands
no hours nor day to speak of
no ticks and tocks to track its rhythm
sometimes I wonder if she ever grew up
being the moody adolescent as she is
so undisciplined and ungrateful as she is–
but, what do I know of parenting?
if a skill is comparable
to a muscle, then what would
be the prescribed medication
for a mentally disembodied
limb that refuses to come up
with any decent metaphors?
instead, I am stuck with
this self-referential mediocrity,
in which I try to rationalize
this literary obstruction
this poetic tragedy
they don’t seem too fond of me these days
I’ve had enough of their cold glares
their refusal, their indifference
they ignore me when I call out to them
they turn their collective backs and
say, in an unbearably disdainful voice,
“Go play with your ukulele;
it’s not like you need us.”
But I do. Don’t turn from me now.
I can’t seem to put things together,
for I seemed to have misplaced my vocabulary.
My muse has abandoned me. Sob.
How am I supposed to express myself–sniffle.–
with you gone?
So come back to me. Wail.
Please come back to me. Sniffle.
Oh, please come back to me. Rolling on the floor.
Hey, that hurt. What?
What do you mean I’m being melodramatic?
I’m having WB, goddammit.
I’m entitled to a tantrum.
What’s WB? Don’t–don’t you know what WB is?
You don’t? Oh, it’s writer’s block.
You’re mean. Sob. Sniffle sniffle. Sniffle.
Piano chords hung from
philosopher’s clouds, high
above ground. Pendulous,
searching , breathless and waiting
for the right psionic connection,
the momentous spark, the proper
amount of obstinacy, slender
fingers of exact, wanted length,
and bone marrows made of
pure musicality. Once
they had chosen their target after
thorough deliberation they
upon their mutual consensus
like shooting stars, descend and
onto the artist’s heart-field with
meticulous precision, followed by
spilled light, coming alive,
of fast drumming keys and everlasting
crescendos, sacrosanct melodies
stretching skyward into the depth
of the universe, interwoven, seamless,
worlds united, overlapped, becoming