The Poem Won't Write Itself,
you know, so you're going to have to do some work.
but first, eat that dark chocolate you've got
stashed in your desk. feel better? good.
why not start with some invention work?
you know -- a freewrite or something. and
time it. there's nothing more annoying than
typing blah blah blah for like twenty long minutes
with your mind half on something else and a
quarter in the ether. five minutes seems about right.
get anything? aside from the fact that "freewrite"
autocorrected to "ferret"? (twice) no? still thinking
about that chocolate? well, it's gone now. you ate it.
focus on the task at hand. maybe you could dip
your fingers into that word box you've got and
pull something out, like "plaything" or "fabulous."
(forget about "sleep" -- you've done enough of that.
your mental sloth has become "habitual.") what can you do
with a fabulous plaything then? oh, come on,
get your twelve-year-old boy-mind out of the gutter
for once. no poem is going to come of that immature
hubba hubba shit ... so what what sorts of things
are fabulous playthings? nature. the mind. children.
how about poetry? oooh, now you're going all meta
on the poem's ass, poetry as a fabulous plaything,
when you know that no one sees poetry as playful
anymore, not really. and by "no one" you mean you don't,
you who know the hive mind or at least write about yourself
as if you know what everyone is thinking. maybe if you
eat more chocolate, or go in search of more, you'll get
inspired. or maybe while you're gone, the computer pixies
will enter like the elven shoemakers of old and hammer
together a poem from the scraps you've left on the cyber
table, and the poem will essentially write itself.