Pigeon Heart Ponderings

I lined myself up to knock em’ all down & all that came out was a squeak. A peep of balloon’s last fart of air. I thought I would have more to say than a solid start with a sentence that led nowhere. I even signed up for a group that I thought would have some golden-rope-effect; me sitting pretty, the top of my head open with willingness, & the thoughts magnetized to the lure- streaming out. But instead, it’s another morning in the big, purple chair, with the lazy sun hidden behind the sky’s thick morning gray at my back, the rain dancing through my ears, cold, pointy, defying prediction- & me- empty as a tin can at a landfill once the gulls have cleaned me out. Just waiting for a few beans to reappear.

A few blocks away lives a fellow with a bumper sticker on his bike that reads “fuck cancer”. Hell yeah, fuck that shit. I hope it can read. I want to make one that says “fuck writer’s block”. I know it can read, & it would be just as affective.

It’s not really fair that the slice of day between dusk & dawn is so thin. That patina silver color right when your body starts to come out of rest that holds the most magic for us who wish to put our words somewhere. Illusive coyote. Standing in the mist. I know where to find them, but the timing has to be right.

Fuck writer’s block, you know? What a diva too. All washed out & nothing left to write about but that. Must be nice to feel so important, you heavy rock in the road, you stone formed entirely for toe stubbing, you garden gravel that all the decomposers live actively beneath. I want in.

Is this a Big Tea Conspiracy? The herbs are steeped & a full mug is balanced precariously with a hopeful trust between my arm & though as I put these paper-thin thoughts down. Is this a ploy to get us to drink more tea & that’s it? Have I fallen for the rouse? Making tea & curling up has often proven the gateway to a poem. They seem good bedmates & hadn’t questioned authority for once.

Is this where scatting came from? A stubborn loss of words coupled with an equally strong desire to speak or sing them? Just letting words fly for exercise & the sake of things;
I don’t know anymore than I used to have more things to say that held hands in the weirdest of ways, & it worked, & if I’m not a poet I no longer know one of my own names. I’m here all dressed up for the party, drinking punch alone, waiting for a dance, dancing by myself.