Archive
01/15/11
Invisible Week
It's been a full week, I see, Since I last sought shelter, escape, from my imaginative thoughts, By deciding not to write a poem, on blue-ruled leaves.
This reality seized me, with palpable immediacy, When I opened my notebook, to its first unutilized page, And realized I'd made a date-and-location entry, in the top margin,
Only to obliterate the notion, with a demonstrative strike-through, Leaving no doubt as to my decision To abandon all intentions of imposing order on the chaotic world.
Now, seven silent and mysteriously unaccounted-for days later, All I'm left with is a blank slate And dozens of potential questions, if I choose to investigate,
Pursue what appears, on the surface of the evidence, anyway, To be a highly unorthodox crime against my creative mind, Unearth what, conceivably, the reason for this missing week could be.
For the next hour, I try, futilely, to reach useful conclusions As to the possible causes for my apparent artistic blackout. I refrain from attributing it to writer's block,
Since I'm utterly unfamiliar with such a noxious phenomenon. I'd rather resort to reading tarot cards, tea leaves, Peering into a soothsayer's crystal ball, to expose those seven days,
But in such realms, I'm totally uninitiated, not to mention skeptical. And so, I sit, chewing dry toast, sipping coffee, Hoping some explanation might fly in the face of the inscrutable, Lead me to certain knowledge as to who I was, When I sent no missives home, to my soul, for a whole week, And let me know the nature of my unrecoverable whereabouts,
Reassure me that my spirit didn't take leave of its existence Or, indeed, if it did, that at least it intended to inform me, Other than by composing poems in invisible ink.
01/15/11
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