(writer’s block 1)
i’m riding my bike early one morning.
alone in the park. happy as a lark.
filling my lungs with the cool morning air.
out of the blue: the hand of god or some
other fucked up thing shoves a giant red
cube directly in my path & bamm! i
run right into it.
stars around my head.
my bike ruined. front tire bent & flattened.
sitting on the grass with scraped knees & hands.
blood running from my nose.
& now it starts
to rain. heavy drenching downpour. thunder
& lightning & golf-ball-sized hail. oh why
is the poetic muse so biting? &
what happened to that poem i was writing?