Prospero's
Paradox is a mandate. Nothing to write and nothing will write. God, what else will I do?
I walked to the bookstore today. Forgot all my words. So zoned into the moment I spilled coffee on the counter.
Artists are made through self-declaration. Nobody will coronate you, place a crown on your head, anoint your brow and kiss your feet.
The same hands I blame for the veil (Mind the gap between You and reality!) can pull it back and expose me. -I- think I'm just flesh and bone. Eyes that see. And so, what color are their hands? How big? Painted nails neatly trimmed?
You've no substance. Keep driving, keep shopping.
This coffee is bitter. Reverb of heavy boot on wood, slick plastic between my fingers.