Vive Le Roi

One of those days; words will not come. Not naturally anyway. I keep turning phrases and lines in my head, but nothing sticks―one or two shinning words, like dummy trophies, but not good enough to erupt, not structured enough to flow, not telling enough to be. I grapple―backspace, type, enter, delete―think, type, delete, blinking cursor cursing―blank―

I feel starved―of knowledge, of sentiment, of sense. I cannot draw on a blank and pretend I have something of value to share. I cannot be an abstract artist with words―I need to make meaning, bring something to life, or kill notions, or arouse curiousity. Something. Not this. Never this. Stupid, unresponsive fingers, a deadened mind, eyes misted with exhaustion. Not this.

***

All my fallen kings, my iconic men, the posterboys of my Sargasso.
The king is dead. Long live the king.