Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Shooting Blanks

Too lazy am I for prose …
poetry’s what goes on the
empty document that
mocks my lack of imagination.

The glaring white square
scoffs and calls me a sprinter.
You can’t handle a marathon.

I have a notion,
an inkling,
a kernel of thought.
I tap with two fingers
and the page can barely
contain itself.
You call that a poem??

Word document casts
a pale blue light
across my face.
I wish you could see yourself .
It’s not your best side.

I power down
smug in the knowledge
that I can silence it.
I pull a sheet of paper
from the printer,
and a pen from the bowl.
I draw boxes ... spirals ... arrows.

The paper scoffs.
You think if you touch me
the words will come?
It will take more than doodling on me
to make them come, you word whore…

The pen whispers
stroke me.

I rip the 8 by 11 sheet in half-
then quarters,
I crumple balls

for the cats to chase.
I have the last laugh.
But the  balls sneer up at me
from the terrazzo
like a body-less dwarves. 

The pen laughs
maniacally and spits
black ink in my lap.

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