The Music Isn’t Working

Trying to get something going.
The music isn’t working.
The spinning 45 on the turntable
has sparked nothing
but this heap of bullshit
and I don’t know why
I can’t seem to make anything
into words.

So now I’m writing poems
about not writing poems
and wondering why the
grey haze of the day
hasn’t yielded rain yet
and why the people
outside all seem to be
in a hurry to get somewhere
while I’m stuck here
with no hurry to go anywhere.

I hear bass reverb through the
walls of my apartment
and I wonder if it’s the call
of other lost ones like me
trying to get something to happen
with volume and sound
and getting no results.

I have a bottle of whiskey on my nightstand
but it’s unopened
the seal un-cracked
as I don’t want to use that way out
just yet.
I accomplished a few months of sobriety
and fucking it up
for a few cheap words
seems like a shit trade.

I have thoughts,
but they don’t turn into poems.
I have thoughts about the polaroid photos
of you and me:
Us fucking,
our old apartments,
and my old empty bottles.
But those thoughts
don’t turn into short stories,
they just turn into reflection
and I while I have
all the records for that,
that’s not how I want
to spend this whole holiday.

That’s right
it’s a holiday
so I’m being paid to sit in this
small apartment and wonder
why all the embers of my
creativity are gone cold dead.
To be fair, I could call this whole
thing a paid writing gig,
and say that the day wasn’t wasted.

I used to hate reading
poems like this
about people like this,
which just shows that
eventually
all writers become hypocrites
and find themselves doing the things
that they hated the most about
other writers.

My sci-fi novel will be forthcoming.

I don’t have any paper for my typewriter
that’s my excuse.
someone told me just to use
toilet paper,
so I tried that,
but it was too thin, and the connection
between my poetry and shit
was just too present.

To be fair, I came to that
conclusion, and then wrote
this,
which is actually shit,
the medium is just
less appropriate
Than if I had used actual toilet paper.

This has been
a poem set
to the sound of a Ryan Adams single.
his voice loaded with old booze
and the sound of heartache.
I don’t know the exact feeling
but I feel like
I want to.
Maybe feeling like that
Makes it easier for him
to write.

This has been
a poem set
to the sound of a Ryan Adams single.
If you don’t like it
I suggest
you blame
him.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s