I have written too many words today
and now I’m out.
They needed to be written. The book won’t write itself.
This is how I earn
whatever fraction of a cent
they pay me for every letter.
The problem is that now I’m out of words
and have started to forget the names of things
like that thing, right over there,
the gray one
that isn’t a toaster.
I turn on the radio in search of words.
It doesn’t help.
The radio’s words are all “jobless rate” and “insider trading.”
I can’t do anything with that
like trying to fill a dry well up
There are no words growing in the garden
and reading is unsettling
those words echo too much
their footfalls sounding in an empty hall
with no words of my own to muffle them.
And the worst part—
the very worst—
the fear that now I am deprived of prose
and will be forced to communicate in poetry
or worse yet
4 thoughts on “Wordcount”
The galling bit… If you put your mind to it… You’d probably as annoyingly good at interpretive dance as you are at everything else.
I can actually promise–and Kevin will back me up–that I have no skill whatsoever in the interpretive dance arena.
Please do not ask her to dance. There are three things she cannot do well. Sing, Dance, and Cook.
Even her mother will agree.
When I run out I go out for a beer
and that’s a nifty way to pass the time
but while I sip I hear a hissing sneer
and all it says is: “Dry. Forever dry!”
I have no use for gods, but will admit
I cling to faith: my word-hoard will refill.
Spot me a pint and listen to the lies
and boasts we throw around this bar tonight.
I drink them in; the beer and bullshit both
and know tomorrow something fresh will flow.