Feeling Stuck. Writing my way out.

I am a writer and lately, I cannot write.

My brain is stuck and all I can get out are oddities.

I really do not want to blame my psychiatric diagnoses. I just want to keep writing. I do not trust the sequential deliverance of my work. I do not trust that it will fit with my current projects. I do not trust myself. I feelt broken.

But, I do not believe in not writing.

I will write here because writing here feels dutiful and open and just kind of healthy.

Since I feel stuck, I am literally now picking myself up and going places.

I am getting back to my work by taking my notebook outside and recording whatever I can. From those notes, come these pieces…poems, maybe. Offerings, truly.

I am translating my physical life into authorial experiences.

If you go anywhere at all while reading, please comment, please let me know.

I believe writing can improve the world by positively advancing readers towards new experiences. This is my practice. This is my work. I just want to return to it and so: Hopefully you go somewhere.

Come back every day. There will be a series.

And, if you are a writer and you are also stuck, maybe start by listening, writing down what you listen, writing down what you hear…



Stop looking at my bag, he says, stop looking at my bag

Grey eyes, grey rimmed yellow lenses he says, stop looking, stop looking at my bag, stop it


She recently visited a candy store, gourmet, occasional

The bright blue bag reminds her of topically appropriate jewellery

And her American family

And Jergens

And stupid things

Like terrorist interventions and monuments and faith

She is jealous

Corrupting her jealousy

By looking at his bag, looking away when he demands, looking back

At cheap plastic red and yellow

Like the one her mother used kept in the trunk

For the blue and green blanket

With the crumbs from that time when

Leaves crumbled

And she never told


Stop. Stop looking at my bag.


Red benches support old people and anyone with a very official lack of character

They will be velvet soon

They will be moving

Like the shopping cart in her living room

Next to the mattress

Where her mother died

She keeps condolences

She keeps old checkers pieces

She keeps sleeping

On a collection of starter kits



I wish I was bigger than this

I wish I was too big

I wish I was growing

I wish I was painting the wall green

Like her best friend

Who worked for Ralph Lauren

Who hated Johnny Cash for being sad


Those who use Fountain Pens, he tells me, never go back, he says, they have trouble going back, fountain pens are like that


Stop looking at my bag

Stop looking at my bag


Yes, yes, yes, yes

as if amazing people were just here

As if that woman who has been sitting still for twenty minutes was just amazing, was just here


Are you writing poetry, he says, are you writing poetry

No no no I am not, are you reading poetry

No no. No no.



Blue scarves tuck in, Green scarves cover her hair, her smile is in between the scarves

For some kind of occasion, some kind of occasional mouth


He reads from a test sheet, flipping it over, flipping it over

The answers

Are written

On all sides


I fixate on the part of me that is successful at not eating

At the candy, occasional, bagged,

At the anxieties overwhelming the grey floor

Staring downward, we pool

These are theirs, where are mine

Sorted, eaten

Talked about by the little girl


Candy mom, candy


Jesus Christ, she says, Jesus Christ and I think

He must be here
He must be


Jesus Christ

She says

Jesus Christ


Grey beard, black hat

He listens from small pieces

Avoiding the sounds

Of anything


And I think

Why do I keep waiting for you to be

Some kind of obscure solution


Stop look at my bag ok


Cowboy boots and a distinguished stare at the phone

With the many things

He has already seen




I wish you some kind of love

I wish love

For some kind of you

For something

Kind of like your tense offers

Once in a while

Once on occasion