Old Man Deridda
By ice rivers
I have writer's block until I sit down to write.
I write right here. I don't sit in wistful park
with a sketch pad, long fingers and beatific aura.
I am at my complicated desk,
looking out at serenity
Listening inwards to whispers
Then my stubby fingers,
waiting to be famous,
start to pound the keyboard
like a silent piano whose inaudible melody sirens
an invitation into my world,
a loving lighthouse that will stay in shoreline structure
beyond deconstruction, in a caress
less than grace yet more than feeling.
Suddenly there is form and word count, even punctuation.
Since words are everything,
decomposition becomes prevalent
even as composition emerges
while we all discover
nagging demons that shreik
in combat with the intended meaning
of these very words which will outlive my mortal effort
as well as our intimate whispered collaboration
transforming into an obscure particle
an essay, proem or article
at least equal to if not greater than my intention
when walking into this room
recognizing the serenity within and without
revealing sparkling chaos
of reflection and momentum
that passes as product which
thanks to spaces
and scansion between
blank rediscovered sentiments.