Root Canal

The Paying (I wish) Public marvels at what comes out: those explosive, star-spangled phrases and melodies (the few times I get it right); but what of the great-real that went in, the life-struggles, the tears, the soul-smothering isolation – not to forget the little left of me, squirming squiggly, imprisoned with the many nameless, sparsely filled, crumpled-up white-pulp battlefields in the wastebasket – my inky piles of bones – clawed-out guts (the years of painful extraction, likened to going to the dentist, then being told, that I have a serious abscess, needing an immediate Root Canal, though unfortunately Covid has prevented our delivery of anesthetic)... Oh well, here goes again: Roses are red – so is a poet's blood; The moon strings silvery, strum-able beams – myself too busy to play them, running on a treadmill, going nowhere, in my Write-blocked-nightmare, ominously pulled from words my stalled mind should be chasing... So, my Love (Poetry), she does and she does not – till one mightily fit for publication:)