There’s this thing inside of me and it’s clawing it’s way out of my stomach with the eraser end of a pencil
Clenched so tight in my hand the words crumble as I stumble
trying to drop them onto a page.
At this stage, it’s 2 o’clock in the morning and I’ll be talking to myself until dawn and smoking myself hoarse because of course I couldn’t force insight
I can’t help but look back at the roller-deck of cards rolling down my back cause the poem is there – I can feel it more clearly than you can see an inflight movie
Moving you seems to have taken precedent.
Cause I could write a poem just for the clicks
but that would be with my left hand
in my right is my third eye and to do that I’d have to press it in
and swallow both arms until I’m shitting wedding rings
because I am not ambidextrous.
So I’ve chopped off my left hand and use the stump to wipe down table tops
cause I want a clean surface for when this shit drops
I don’t know when, or how, or what I want to say but I know there is a poem here
So I’ll wait
I have been to the cavernous depths of experience
and nearly drowned myself in them
but I learned to fly on waterwings
I learned to look at that little girl that would grow up to be me and tell her
it’s cool, it doesn’t mean anything.
Feel what you feel
And the irony has not escaped me – I am fully aware that I am writing a poem about writing a poem
it would be too easy to say this was a metaphor, what should I go meta for? but there is this magnet pulling me
Towards an undefined destination and I will slip and trip over the smoky grips of hands clawing at my ankles
but this is it
I can feel it
So I’ll wait
because I know there is a poem here
I’ll wait, I’ll sit for hours while the thoughts grow sour
at the back of my throat and all I want to do is reach in and grab them
rip them out and slam them
onto the page in front of me
but that page is still blank
So I twiddle my thumbs
light another cigarette
walk around in circles
and pray that my roommates don’t hear me talking to myself.
And it’s only 2’oclock in the morning when I decide
get lost in not knowing what’s next.
So from now on – I’ll be engraving each word I want to erase into the soles of my boots – with my right hand
Because every single verse I don’t want to write has already travelled a million distances inside of me
There is a poem here.