The Impossibility of Writing

always the escapist
mother used to put me in
a strange sunny room to sleep
&i would trace the letters ‘Cc’
in my alphabet primer book
index finger feeling for capital ‘C’
my sense is i was awake in braille

&if for a moment
i thought i would ever die
the curve of the ‘C’
surely helped me
get around it

it’s not something to be explicated
you see
&now
i’d like to write a symphony

because television sitcoms aren’t enough
and my fingers want to feel something
like paper again
&although poems are
impossible to write
i triumph with all ten fingers
using both hands
to assail my restrictors

by inhaling
&shrugging both my shoulders
simultaneously 
i make a sharp turn
on the page like a ‘Z’
zip zap Z
i’m in love with you, ‘Z’
because you point the way out

i’m still learning what i’m doing
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11 thoughts on “The Impossibility of Writing

  1. The instinct is to create, but the brain is a cruel, preemptive editor. The time to listen to the brain is much later, when your poor little waif of a draft has had some time to get strong on its little legs. I liked this sentiment very much – the execution even more.

  2. Another writer’s block buster that sometimes works for me is just to title the damn thing “this poem is” and then spill.
    “this poem is” pissed off, blocked up, rock ’em sock ’em robot soft…I dunno why, but sometimes that one works for me.

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