White Noise

The kitten, the one plucked
mewling from a box downtown,
the spider fighter, the dark
destroyer, looks at me with
knowing grey eyes as if to say,
"you can't do this. You don't
know shit."

Winds howl outside but inside
silence can not erase the
taunting hum of the computer,
its screen a blank snowy hillside.
Isn't this dramatic, you say.
Well, I'd answer, it depends.
Do you write?

Scouring the floors yields no
answer, lyrics on the radio
laugh at your ego, and
yogastic posing only
twists your body into knots
that approximate your mind.

Fingers tap out the same line
in slightly different ways,
stuck playing endless variations
of an unliked theme. The line
is a kettle whistle, piercing
the blessedness of the page.
Because you love writing, you
erase it

and the sea of white is your
home. Adrift and only
vaguely aware of land, you
strike out for any idea, any
shadow on the horizon.

Darkness descends,
clock ticks are pin pricks,
and time ambles towards
two a.m. as you write the
same sentence, again.