Eating chocolate sandwiches at her insistence
while walking in the woods with her black dog Sixpence
the same silver coin name as my Saturday sweets
but Sixpence from the pound was found on the streets
On a clear autumn day in Texas a drone pilot sits before a screen of virtual reality
looking forward to the end of his shift and driving home along wide open roads
beneath the stillness of a late afternoon sky.
He will have a beer on his porch after working all day at targeting play,
droning on the Taliban when, by collateral default, he perhaps annihilated a workingman, woman, child or wedding plan.
“Ah but,” said the sergeant in charge, “their despicable ways of writing graffiti with the blood of a severed limb taken from the victim.”
Later, at home, the drone pilot sleeps in his corner before going to work again tomorrow and
those who will be droned tomorrow also sleep, in another corner, as do the people
who said that drones were a good idea
I saw Bill yesterday when I got off the train
Bill who played the piano for our pantos
He didn’t see me there, at the foot of the steps
It was rush hour and I said ‘Bill,’
‘Yes, hello, how’s your husband? and your daughter?’ he said, without turning
He was folding his stick down to the size of a ruler, tucking it into a pouch attached to his belt,
‘I bought this pouch after the last time,’ he said.
He meant a year ago, when I saw Bill
sitting on the bench in the station, stuck waiting
someone had nicked his stick so I walked him home.
‘You’re holding everyone up,’ said a woman.
We were standing there, at the foot of the steps, but
Bill stayed cool, he’s from the Bronx, he plays the piano
Oh. It’s a blank page. Hello, block of white.
As I start writing it feels like you do after you’ve written stuff and received feedback. Feedback on creative work has an energy with a noise and a pulse, hitting you in waves. Similar to grief or love. You can hear it again and again. Praise feedback is like new love, lust or a new job, charging you into action. You’re alive and have a sense of freedom, heard, you have a voice and creative joy celebrates … whoo hoo … Sometimes it’s so good you want to write more … unless you feel scared of not living up to the last time.
Sometimes the noise and the vibrations, the reverberating feedback, can take over, like the end of a Jesus and Marychain gig, it will confuse you. Then you feel numb, dull, once hopeful but now all your excitement is gone. It’s as if you’re dead from the neck up. A robot. Face it. You should never write again. You’re the most ordinary nobody who truly has nothing worth writing or reading in the first place, right? Not me. Good or bad, winds will blow and so, being brave – but not quite ready to blog yet – I’m saying hello to this blank page, this block of white space. Back soon with words for my brand new blog as a reader of books and blogs and thoughts, a writer of stories, a dreamer and thinker of images, a poet of prose and a prose writing poet.