Recently, I haven't been able to write anything more than a few lines at a time. In poetic angst, I despaired. Forgive the language, I was and am stretching to see if anything ignites:


Somewhere along the past week, I’ve lost myself again. The coherency is gone. The ability to grasp at separate worded strands and weave them into some tapestry is absent. And it’s different from before. The wit—is it wit?—is gone. Or something else. Something significant. What remains are fragments.

We made love like on exhibition in New Delhi. Where is the story in that? Suddenly, I feel—not blind— precisely missing. All the parts but something critical, something fundamental are there. All the enjambment and vocabulary persists, but nothing coalesces into anything useful or alive. Your yarn unwound for vibrant years were passing. There is no feeling. It is the absence of life.

The sky’s the limit is
a ridiculous contradiction
because if we really believed it,
we’d never know Neil Armstrong.

It falls like a dead anchor. It is logical, perhaps even clever, but it is poetically non-present. It is impersonal and devoid of Williams’ Imagination. It has no power to create like words of my recent past might have managed to display some feeble quantity of.

He, who does not exist, takes everything. Takes even pain. Even pain.

Cognate, rise up. Please rise.

-------------------------------

On a separate note, this is a much desired melody (it trembles in me with synchronous sympathy): [link]