I wished I’d stay motionless.
Stop transcribing as if I had become
a ventriloquist. Who am I really?
Primed for the task so I wear
suffering like a badge?
Oh go ahead muffle me, annihilate
the voice. What voice? Whose voice?
Perhaps it belongs to misty-eyed Rosie.
She’s despondent and oh-so-ironic.
She’s looking for redemption.
Unleashing something called
fiction. Rearranging furniture,
vacillating over where to put up
a painting coz everything needed
order, a design.
Cockiness born of desire for
honest-to-god truth so what were
we thinking? Write to find out
what it’s all about. And believing
it somehow saves us.
Prompt: Do you know how poetry works? It’s a process of connecting two things that are unlike. Which is to say, finding metaphors. So I just sat here and typed up this thing which is about writing. I just showed up and this appeared to be what I’m thinking about. The best way to find out what we’re thinking is to show up for work. There’s something workman-like about writing too. Write about the writing process if you can’t think of a subject. That usually works.