writers block

Caught up in things like self narration hinged on a single screw inside a head that rattles loose-leaf novels, texts and paper clips without a job…

I'm stuck froze at the intersection

of a strong “maybe” and a weak “why the fuck not”.

My historical compulsions to maze without an entrance aimless as the pen lay cocky offering me a tiny violin in jest.

My art is a tree branch that I shake to death- like when Dali the boy beat overripe fruit into pulp to mimic the feel of a soft breast- I love in the same way- against a different need

Tripping over dead relatives who just roll their eyes at me…

They say something like “Oy! we died in these flowerless camps so you can sit nude staring at pages all day?”

The pressure is real

Yo!

And I waste some more time wondering if Boris from Tropic ever took care of the mites in his crotch- or if that little boy in the renaissance painting I saw one July was able to eat the fruit painted in feelings of his hunger, more alive than my soul at the time.

If he was ever able to feel the comfort of socks.

Or just some clean feet on his legs or fuck a canvas to sleep.. forever would be great...

Submerged in crimson paint is the absence of color, a crinkled void in the cloth escapes from my focused intention… and to the edge of the frame where I stand and shoot my gaze in my bra chewing cold pizza- aroused by the majesty of color.

The hairline crack inside the painted eyeball has an eyeball and it winks at me, a joke time’s had for me to ponder some 900 years… a fuck you to me.

My muse on a hunger strike for 39 days, I’m stuffing its choking mouth with my rage. Naked. Mosquito lands on my thigh, old lover coming for more blood. Hearing a dove outside. Laughing. Thelonious aims his greased fingers at me from inside a box spat at by god- I raise my brow and curl my lip, ears red hot pushing windowed sunlight through my veins moving to frequencies I can barely capture onto a page.