The Creative Process

You sit down with a piece of paper and a pen and decide:
you will be brilliant today.

You will write about your crazy ex-lover, your vengeful mother,
the teacher you had in 2nd grade you barely remember
but who called you by the wrong name during your awkward encounter
in the supermarket last week
and it pissed you off.

Ten minutes later
your paper is full
of doodles of your dog
and you decide to check your email,

Find that your spam filter is as productive as you are.
A fine outstanding, yet cruelly mistreated, gentleman in Nigeria needs you to wire him money,
but his father with three doctorates treating AIDS across the border will pay you back,
ASAP and surely you understand.
An 18-year-old shy girl wants to get to know the real you,
the deep you, the one you’ve hidden from the society who can’t appreciate you.
The picture she’s attached is a testament to her outstanding tits.
And if you hurry, dildos resembling Jagger’s dick are buy one,
get one free.
Your friend still
hasn’t written you back.

You line up another sheet of paper
to write about the war.
You don’t know which one yet,
something gory, something sad, you figure: someone will have to die.
You make a list: 99% vs 1%.  America vs the world. And then you are perplexed,
Googling Wars brings up Star Wars.
Search refined: Burma, Sudan, ETA in Basque Country, Spain.
Your list becomes long.  You get depressed,
decide to check Facebook for cat memes.

Two hours later when you score 53 points in Words With Friends
playing “zygotes,” you realize you’re starving.

You write “ravished” next to your list of wars
and head to the fridge.

Crap.  You’re down to your last cup of milk, two sticks of butter, some questionable leftovers, three beers and an apple.
You raid the cabinet for chips and your poem becomes a shopping list.

With all those salts and trans-fats,
war becomes too heavy for your stomach, anyways.

You shuffle through your iPod for mood music.  Bob Dylan,
Third Eye Blind, Trivium.  You think, Oh, what a genius,
get jealous, convinced you’ll never be published,
or famous or paid.  You will be married to the man
the rest of your life,

wander to your porch to chain-smoke cigarettes

and write this poem.

 

 

Is it Friday yet? This poem was originally published at Zygote in My Coffee.

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