This isn't a poem about Japanese ink.
Due to COVID-19 I've been working from home since March 13th. In that month I have not been able to really get in to writing.
It feels stilted. Tiring. Less important to me on a personal level.
On Friday, my company had to lay off 50% of their employees. About 250 people. I was "lucky" enough to keep my job. And I am grateful.
I am grateful.
This was written on Saturday the 11th. It is not about COVID or layoffs or even really about not being in to writing at the moment.
It is about feeling like I am a dry brush waiting.
It dips itself — the handle — it — has something — filament a golden hair — within that it must — express — as grapes underfoot — it dips itself — the well of creativity — see it knows — something we do not — has that inside its head — it is a blankness waiting — it dips itself — like honey or a pool of warm water — the image began eons ago — creativity is an ink waiting for the dryness of a horsehair — to have a thought of its past life — have wells of past selves to unmoor — a cliff face waits to fall into the sea all of its life —