I\'ve been going through a long dry spell, an arid
wasteland of the mind. Writer\'s block is hell.
It\'s an empty nest, a dead baby bird in
the wet grass- ant eaten eyes.
It smells like plastic flowers on a tombstone.
I\'m lost and starving in the whiteness.
Why can\'t I write? Have I drank my mind
into mush? The poems don\'t come like
they used to- the click is gone.
Sometimes, there were four or five a night.
They swam from the river of my soul.
They were my food, my light, and my wings.
A good poem is like smacking the ball
out of the park.
Writers block is a
limp cock, a miscarriage, an empty gun.
It\'s like having a stomach ache,
and not being able to vomit.
Everywhere I go, I am
surrounded by convicts and a maze of walls.
My mind and spirit are not in prison though.
They fly over the razor wire like
the falcon I saw through the
bars on the window.
He pierced the clouds like a bullet.
I will make the next poem a feast;
blood and feathers will fall from my chin,
ambrosia will pulse through my veins, and I will
sing and soar from the depths of my cage.