sometimes
when i don’t know what to write
i’ll just lightly tap my fingertips
against the keyboard
i don’t press any of the buttons down
it’s not to make any sort of mark
on the electronic page
rather
i’m trying to shake creativity loose
from my fingers, hands, arms,
body —
i’m trying to rain down onto the keyboard
and maybe one of these puddles
will create words
that i can splash into
and from which
i can start
a poem
getting up
getting ready
taking the puppy on a walk
sitting down to write
or eat
or prepare for the day
then going about the day
which could be any number of things:
circus
or
a script reading
or
teaching aerial to children
or
grand jury these days
[but only for four more days]
or
[and these are the days i miss]
just chilling at home
kissing the puppy
cuddling with the cat
taking a nap
doing some household chores
taking whatever time i want to take
and
maybe
writing a little more
[when will i get time
to be creative
throughout my days
again?]
do i have writer’s block
or does writer’s block have me
in a chokehold
from which i’ll never be released
do i have writer’s block
or is writer’s block my best frenemy
stalking me
fighting
and making up
and i keep them around for…
…for what?
do i have writer’s block
or is my whole life a lie
based on wanting to write
but never knowing how or when or why
or even if i really should
so i just
rush back
into writer’s block’s arms
do i have writer’s block
or are these excuses
to keep me from writing out
my whole soul?
the creativity is bubbling up
boiling and broiling
until a mess ends up over the sides of the pot
roiling down the sides
and onto the stove itself
and the question is:
was the creative endeavor one that would
put the flame that ignited the creative spark
out
or
is it one that is incendiary and will
continue to burn
until it consumes
the whole house?
i have so many ideas
and concepts
and words
and stanzas
running through my head at all times
i am damn near constantly in a state
of needing to get something
out
of my system
but i don’t write when i need to
i save it all up for the morningtimes
and in the morningtimes
when i’m ready to write
i come up with almost
nothing
but what to write about
when my brain feels so tired
and exhausted from trying to
be creative all week
and knowing that there’s still a couple of things
left to adjust
and fix and mix in
but it’s ok
for a first
draft
it’s ok
for my first
try
it’s ok
for a first
and maybe even a second
or maybe
maybe
maybe
it’s better than ok
for all of those things
[i need to believe
in my creativity
more]
just writing
quick morning words
and then back to working
on the thing i should have started
a month ago
but alas
the maybeHD
and procrastinatory tendencies
make it so
in this week
before the event
this is when my creativity
actually explodes
quiet the mind
just enough to hear the important thoughts/
the creative thoughts/
the thoughts that are often drowned out
by anxiety rambling
and existential depression blues
there may be creative moments
inside those diatribes
but i’ve heard enough of them to know —
it’s getting past them
that the true me
lies
[in truth]
in photography, i have no problem
taking tens
of hundreds
of thousands of photos
knowing that somewhere in there,
there will be a great picture —
gorgeous
experimental
framed well
captured beautifully
and composition, exquisite
and even in poetry, mornings of multitudes,
all my poems
multiple
every morning, i know
not every poem will be great
but somewhere in here
there may be something
to write home about
then why oh why do i shy away from
the writing of prose/novels/
or plays?
as if i need my first try to be
so great
otherwise i should just
give
up
?
is it simply that it takes so much longer to write
longer form, than it does to slap dash down a poem
or capture a second or few
in a non-moving image?
so the effort to output
ratio feels more
[risky]
[or am i so scared of something more/or less scary?]
grand plans
for so many poems
but the attention span
to leave as soon as they’re started
kipventures 