Tricia Thibodeaux Baar

Writer's Block

            after Tom Waits

Threads of hours, kitestrings crusted in glass
shards, brutal, violent silence.  Pills
to stay awake, pills
to calm the devil
perched on the deskflap.  Doze:
eyes wide, try harder. 

A ceiling fan squeaks, chatters like a monkey.
All we sad asses, trying. 

What I wouldn’t give, wouldn’t pay,
my hair, my eye, my hand…
others flee before the charge hits;
buy all the self-help books you want;
you can’t trust those guys.  What’s underneath
their flasher trenches?  Feet of clay.
The dead have no control. 

Friday bleeds into Saturday,
what a party.  Thursday had only
seeped over midnight.
You can make yourself more attractive
to the idea…a Pied Piper
leads the way but the riverbed
is dry. Go incognito if you go. 

What wouldn’t you give?
Do this:  try another hairstyle,
try another venue, change
the company you keep, take
a taxi, sit in the backseat.
Does it work?  Please say. 

Take me down now to the room where this started.
flowers in the glass on the bedside, nothing
on the page. 

I’ve spent the price in time. 

Saint Helena called;
maybe God will save us…




Snow Meditation 1
By Nancy Dunaway