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NOTHING
Inside the Block
No visions coming for my visual art.
No words for my writing.
I can’t even sit at the canvas, the keyboard.
Well, here you are so why not write out from inside the block.
Scream your silence.
That was from some muse (lower case m) locked up in the basement.
What — like this, I asked?
I guess if I have Nothing to say — that’s saying something.
Semaphore your voice. Morse code some letters. Stick some images on top of each other. Maybe you’ll cough up something.
I still read a lot and I recently saw a quote by a multidemensional being from the future, named Bashar, which made me giggle. “If you have writer’s block, write about having writer’s block, and you will no longer have it.”
That’s it, that’s it.
And Sylvia Plath said; Every day, writing. No matter how bad. Something will come.
I can’t even muster desperation about it though, no contemplations of pills or rope or jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. That would be theatrical — and drama has weight after all. This Nothing is more like a hammock, only slightly uncomfortable.
