i keep playing the same
jeff buckley songs over and over again
to try to reconnect to my poet's voice.
(i've forgotten how to see.)
all i feel when i hear him tell his
black beauty that he loves her so
is a horrible, sucking void within my guts.
there was a time i could weld words into phrases
burnished and hot with emotion.
it feels like a lifetime ago.
who will wash the dishes? who will fold
the untouched piles of linens? who will
watch the ever-important television dramas
and flip the dinner pancakes, so that i can
focus on my (using-air-quotes) "art"?
no one. i must do these things myself, and
somehow after chores are done and
ever-important programs are viewed,
i must still find the wherewithal to lift
hammer and tong, measure out my phrases
twice to cut once, and re-learn my trade.
i think i am still able to do this. i am just not yet
compelled by the thought of it. i'm not mad
enough to stay up beyond the moon, scribbling.
it's almost enough to make me miss depression.
at least then i was writing.
i'm not ready to say my last goodbye, or see
the love i have for such things die, but some days
it still feels like it's over. so kiss me, muses, kiss me,
kiss me out of pity, because i'm holding my impotent
pen and waiting for something worth expressing to drip
from my sterile brain. fates, inflict me with tragic turns,
push me to the brink--on second thought, nevermind.
leave me be, let me shake off the rust and retread the
tired, old steps. i'll run my lines and pretend i'm inspired
until the moment comes when the primed pump
pours forth something worth reading.