Fourteen lines, one hundred forty syllables, and
then
what? What’s supposed to happen? Do you solve
a problem, resolve some gripe, work through an
ache that throbs into your pen? Do you delve
into the backwoods of your heart and find
a thing you didn’t know you sought? Or do
you throw something, Pollock-like, on the rind
of paper that you call a page, and chew
until you find – you don’t know what you’re look-
ing for, and that’s the problem, right? You don’t
have any clue what you can write about –
some Truth, capital T, don’t give a fuck
if it’s palatable, it’s there, you can’t
take any back. You can’t inhale a shout.
what? What’s supposed to happen? Do you solve
a problem, resolve some gripe, work through an
ache that throbs into your pen? Do you delve
into the backwoods of your heart and find
a thing you didn’t know you sought? Or do
you throw something, Pollock-like, on the rind
of paper that you call a page, and chew
until you find – you don’t know what you’re look-
ing for, and that’s the problem, right? You don’t
have any clue what you can write about –
some Truth, capital T, don’t give a fuck
if it’s palatable, it’s there, you can’t
take any back. You can’t inhale a shout.