I get to this point and I’ve nothing to say.
So what then, where to?
At least the sentence can end with a preposition; this is poetry after all.
But that’s not enough; there has to be more.
I’m aching for it: diagnosable withdrawal.
The way one would notice the absence of food,
or at the very least, the recognition of malnourishment.
Where’s the proof?
In the un-inspiration, complacency even.
Dragged out, beat down, by a lack of production.
Gears grinding in un-oiled oxidation.
Akin to exercising: tiring, yes, but in actuality, producing more energy.
Need a first step, ball rolling, build momentum.
Finally achieves kinetic.
The pen scrawls unabashed fervor;
some junkie who feels the high even before the needle penetrates his skin.
And squeeze: there’s the release.
Orgastic even—teeming with life.
Here, let’s make it happen.
Fertilizing eggs of miscellaneous; goulash of the brain.
Grow and hatch into something beautiful, mysterious, titillating, compelling,
Albeit doubtlessly incongruous.
But in some acceptable fashion be squared off and wrapped up with an ink bow
or spoken disclaimer, “it’s only the first draft.”
A neatly presented gift from the patchwork of my mind;
A quilt for your viewing pleasure.

i won’t tell you how to use your legs
i will let you lie, and sip my drink
for i’m a man who can describe himself
and my morality borders so closely the line
of acceptability that i’m interesting
and someone who can walk will come and sit
next to me and sip delicately on their drink
in tandem and we’ll sit far above the floor.

i will discuss with them.
and my compatriots.
dying.