Writer's Block

date unknown

A professor once told

that it is really nothing

more than fear, creative

fear naturally vested

in similar recesses of the

thinking bits, the cortexes and all those

lobes winding about 

the gray sludge of a human

mind, a wrong word

to use in reference to

a brain, probably

affected in his

green vat of electrochemical

goop plugging in some weird

color that no one else even

gets but call blue

or skitfalifalla because

it doesn't matter

anyway, within a locked 

vat or jar or

any landscape at

all like some tactile

ayahuasca fueled

dream where you can

finally smell the mountains of

Olympus pouring from the trough

between your toes, wriggling

in the sand like those

funny guys we call

worms or ostriches --- 

which apparently do

not even place their

heads or minds into

the sand, perhaps

total darkness blocks

the entire trip from the true

realm of clouds and thunder

bolts across a twilighted

heaven twinkling with every star

no one has ruined

with a silly name or

number or

rating

of any kind --- and I

remember being

inspired as he

sat down onto a desk,

chest against the back,

leaned and dug into the dirt

beneath his words so I could

jump and gather

like a jester in the court

of mocking gods above

all the penchant for missing

a punchline.