Blood In The Ink Well

                                 “Style means the right word. The rest matters little.”
                                   —Jules Renard


She had a few choice words
left
for us all;
too few, on idiots to waste.
To save them for her poem,
she chose.

First,
she burned all her previous attempts.
Then,
she counted her few remaining words.
Last,
she dry-cleaned her favorite dress.
Proceeded to wear it
and in three fingers a red pen she held.

A single, blank, eight and a half by eleven page.

Abstract: One over many repeating themselves
Time: Her ever diminishing existence
Locus: The ever diminishing space she occupied.
Form: Austere; her Time's Moral Imperative
Content: Refuse
Message: Decency

On the single, blank, eight and a half by eleven page,
she bleeds red...

- Theory
Form
Style, her style, her pose, her choice.
It's about the vowels and where she places them
It's about the spaghetti and how she cooks it...

- Refuses the blindfold.
Eye-contacts
the finger
the trigger
the bullet.
Now, the fleeting instant
Now, the perpetual forever...

- Forever defeated.
Time after time
she admits defeat
and never surrenders...

The finishing touch on the top, the title: Maria's Poem

Shrugged her shoulders
and a cigarette, she lit...
 

"Writing about writer's block is better than writing about nothing at all."
-Charles Bukowski-

I cut poems
On my writer's block

And hang them
In my writer's shop

To serve up lines
Of regular patrons

Whilst smears of black ink
Festoon all my aprons.

I'm lonely when
The lines aren't there—

My writer's block
Is laid out bare

And pieces of poems
Rot in my hair...

But this is my gig,
And this is my lair.