Monday, February 2


the day is ended
sometime past and i
with heavy soul and
eyelids weary, turning
am to my blankets dark
the shape of dreams
more even than i want
to feel above or
below the quiet
of neurons weaving
their own slow accord
with nature and
nature's god


And then it occurred to me: Writer's block is mostly just a sign that you need to do something else for a while. Fry some eggs. Go outside. Trudge through the snow. Build a house. Drink a beer. Play catch with something. Pick up an instrument. Take a nap. Plant a tree. You know, something.

This has been another exercise in expressing my impulses as potentially disastrous generalized advice. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to step away from the keyboard for a bit.

tags: topics/poem

p1k3 / 2004 / 2 / 2