I have not suffered from writer's block in a long time.
When it comes, as I am sure it will, watch out!
Theresa will not be a happy camper.
As it is I am not a happy camper, feeling quite unhappy in fact,
but my brain is buzzing and zooming along like a freight train.
I actually have not been able to capture the words for days.
They are coming so fast and strong and in the strangest places.
While washing my hair in mid-sud ( not a quick thing washing my hair it takes a very long time)
I can't jump out of the shower or even start the voice recorder.
By the time I'm done it's gone.
Only to be recited in a dream where I become aware that this is the missing piece
( sorry Shel for quipping your book title). I wake in a fog scribble it down in low light as not to wake the Z-Man. Wake up. Hung over from lack of sleep, (four days now expecting a psychotic episode any day now) only to read what I've written.
"What the fuck does that say? Is that English?"
Is all I can say.
But today in a flood a weeks worth of glibs, lines, half connected thoughts came together.
I felt this tingling.
I am not exaggerating, it is my only release and sometimes it makes me feel...
sexy in that literary way. The present two books I am writing in stay in the car, like condoms in the wallet of a virgin boy who can't wait to use them.
This afternoon, I met a friend at Java. I was trying to write a Sestina.
But my friend showed and needed to talk. So the tingle was ignored.
I do not advocate the ignoring of tingles! You could go blind!
I left there to see my mother, we had a nice talk and she showed me the crapped out article in the Oafing (I know it's Loafing). It was about the Java Anthology and it seems to me that a lot of crackheads are gainfully employed, continuing their habit, and loafing while they hate.
But I digress.
This is a long one so get comfy.
I left Mom's headed home and only got as far as the Brewhouse when the tingle would not be ingnored. I finished the Sestina, finished a beer, wrote another Rondeau, finished a beer, and "Touched" was born.
As you may have seen, I occasionally put some of the pictures from my photo shoot on this page. When I did the shoot the photographer the fabulous Seve Adigun, took one of the photo's and made it into my soon to be CD cover. It's an amazing photo, if I do say so myself, and I did.
He titled it "Touched" because of the image, you will so get it when you see it.
I told him I didn't have a poem with that title. He said he was just focused on the image and that's what came to him. I could call it anything I want.
Damn skippy I can call it what I want it's my CD, holler!
The image so struck me that I knew it would have to be called that. In the beginning I tried to force the poem.
Note to poets:
Under no circumstance do you try to force a poem. The resulting injury could seriously have your work called a piece of shit!
The poem flowed like water.
My waiter must have thought I was having seizures and small bouts of turrets.
And remarkably no curse words appear in any of the poems.
I think I am fucking cured from potty mouth.
Okay, Maybe not.
I have never had a waiter check on me so often. At one point I zoned back in to where I was and the whole patio was looking at me as if I stood there stupid and naked.
They were only half right!
It was great!
I'd like to say that my funk is over or that the sad feelings have left me for the moment.
The mini breakdown in the car on the way back to Java says it's alive and well and still pressing.
The words aren't running so fast in my head now. They have slowed and I can catch them.
I still feel heavy, and again find myself typing at risk of electrocution.
Sorry I had to leave the Monkey before the show was over. Congratulations to all the poets!