Friday, September 11, 2009

eleven.

I have nothing to write.  Yet I want to write it so very badly.  Now.  I set aside this time before my eyelids sunk with the exhaustion of lengthening hours and meaty lists of tasks to check for my own leisurely unfurling.  And yet.


I draw a blank.


That is an interesting phrase to me--it is impossible to draw blankness.  In the way an artist might draw a picture, I mean.  And I suppose that's the ironic purpose to it all.  When you are drawing nothing you aren't really drawing.  You are sitting at a desk, tapping your eraser against the hard wood and shaking your leg in frustration before a page pleading for the contribution of your creative tatooing, still unmarked.  You are poised with your fingers over a keyboard, an unlimited combination of letters and spaces and punctuation at your disposal--and yet they can't be compelled to force down a single symbol.  


Thoughts wink at me seductively, starry and inconsistent enough.  I can't see them long enough to put them down on paper before the light goes out again.  On again, off again.  


Flash!

I buy too much music.


Light!

We create Zion.


Asterisk!

If you add ghetto slang to juvenile sentences it makes you sound older?


Zap!

I have a goal to say only good things about people that is hard sometimes.


Thought!

I am Homework Kid--it says so on my cape.


Notion!

Sam Beam is a beautiful man.


Something!

Maggot face.



N o t h i n g . 


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