The Block

I’m telling you inspiration has gone flat, the horizons reeling further and further away, like life, poetry is round and endlessly painful—when you can’t find the connection between light and dark, you are helpless to fend for yourself in a blank page—deep as any ocean that rolls over its mysteries, white as the eyes of god in a redundant stare, pouring over your face expressionless, meaningless—he can see your dry heart beating nonstop for nothing, he knows how to break you down like a cardboard box, and toss you gently away to be recycled into the metered masses, perhaps you’ll be a straw for someone’s sucking, or a cup for someone’s angry and bottomless pit, because you are unspecial in so many predictable ways, you are a zero without positive of negative attributes, without substance, or character, or purpose—these are turbulent days and you are rudderless on that sea that beckons you home, but what and where is it?  What is the best version of yourself you can tap-out to the to the stubborn stars that refuse to guide you?  There is nothing inside you, and the universe is as listless as a breeze through abstract and smoky trees—mayonnaise in a clot we cannot glide through… stop!  And time to hide for a few… till the sun breaks through the ether in a shimmering blaze!