Blocks
For not being on the page
A block is a word trapped in sorrow for not being on the page. A word not making verbal sculptures in the vast green of the mind.
It is what isn’t coming. Not second. Not even first. Just caught in the iron grip of the foot that hovers off the ground. The word of the block is running around headless already. No guillotine required. Just come out for the show of letting spectators drenched in gore and the feeling that this energy is never gonna come to an end.
And then it ends.
And one foot in front of the other, the white gets marked up with shade. And the grey light is only purple in hiding. You want to go find your monsters. You’re armed with your pen and your eyes. There’s supposed to be some Infamy and Envy…I mean Elan that wasn’t hiding under a rock and there’s no call for Forgiveness. Just the empty crackling of a fire that went out days ago.
There are weeks of the empty space. Sometimes only just a few hours. But you keep picking up your bag like you’re going out. And then the door stays shut because you have no extra hand for the doorknob. Twisting inside already, you can’t find the map that shows how these things work anymore. Shoes? Well, you can walk out barefoot but that seems stupid in world where broken bottles and empty cans are the social equivalent of land mines.
