In a room
friday
rain outside
nothing to write about
I mean, I should be writing, hammering away
since there is nothing else
but there is nothing in my head
at the moment
empty, zero, zilch
I have been doing this forever
I should be going on about the jobs and the towns
and the women and cities and cars and shit
grey and grey out there
warm where I am
got some old favorites
on the radio singing
stacks
of
clean paper
and a fresh ribbon
in my head
there is nothing
no worth
too lazy right now to begin
a story
too burned out on the novel
to read through it
I need the poems again
I need those nights back
where they had started
me in a room,
a mattress,
a tape player and some tunes.
friday;
drained of inspiration
but here’s a full page.
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