Writer’s Block

 

They arrive

not by mail

but rather

out of thin air,

letters in a foreign tongue

that I cannot read

except for my name

which appears

in salutation

and resurfaces

throughout the body;

the only discernable detail

in an otherwise

indecipherable

script.

 

Letters without words

appearing

as if present

all along, beneath

a stack of papers

or tucked inside

the soft

brick of a book,

giving me the feeling

that without their existence

my life would be

less real.

 

Without these letters

perhaps I would be nothing

more than an actor

acting within

the parameters

of my own play.

 

I can point to anything

anywhere and show you.

Look, here I am

boarding the L train

when I

meant to catch the R

only to wind up

two blocks from the sea,

clutching my name

like a torn-out page

crinkled in my fist.

 

Having tired

of telling myself

the same

old stories

and at the end of

a very long rope

I knew I needed

to begin anew

by accepting

that all that

once was

so readily apparent

could now

only be recalled

with my heart.

 

Why then, am I

surprised to find

the cat’s tail twitching

out the words:

the best people

are afraid

in such a fuzzy

Morse code?

 

My barometer is awe.

Only when I feel unworthy

do I know

I’m in the presence

of greatness.

Rather than take a hammer

to the brick a brac

narrative of

these last days

why not use

this dumbfounded space

to tell a more

impossible story,

 

 

6/15/22