Today, I sat down and I wrote:
“I am the first coming of Rembrandt.
Before Rubens was, I am.
And when Pollock has crumbled into oblivion,
I will still be splattering order all over my canvas.”
And then I tried writing more, but it didn’t work.
So I deleted it, and I tried again.
And the second try was worse than the first.
So I facebooked for a little bit, and then I realized:
that poem will never be written.
It’s a shard. It’s a poem-fragment.
It’s like all of those wonderful novels I began writing when I was younger.
It won’t go anywhere.
It was about the clouds after a tornado-storm came through.
They were beautiful.
But I can’t write that poem. It’s just not going to work.
Instead, I’m writing this.
I feel like this is more a lecture than a poem.
I feel like smashing my computer for sucking out all of my inspiration.
I feel like I’m done with this poem.
Or lecture. Whatever it is.
Long live awkwardness!