Writing a novel seems like a novel idea and then when you sit down to write nothing comes to mind but frantic buzzing white noise like a peaceful chainsaw, muffled sound. Sitting at a wooden, oaken desk waiting to be given history and life force energy, so that it may one day stand tall and say, “Something great happened here”. Pulling over South bench post, dotted tryptophan stars make their milky way to the edge of the galaxy and sit sullen in silence gazing past and pasttimes. Noisy nurture city life to where the dial on my anxiety has broken off and it sits like a amp in repair shop with a hole in it, dusty and forgotten by its employees and its owner. Pawned off Main Street USA sold to China on eBay notarized by anyone who showed up. It cowers in showers and sparkles uniformly, warmly. Sensitive eggshells scatter down beatnik breadlines, folks dainty sipping soup from a cup like it’s the 17th goddamn century. Catapulting women trapeze artists twirling. These rejected ballet school dropouts out to make a life, a living. Bound to love, and love again. These lined notebooks pages spin across elemental cyclones spaced six feet apart. Lovely Dixie dance, square-dancing plaid mistake. Full up on nutrients and supplements. Peanut butter daze.
Symphonious con-man twirling his mustache as a nervous nick, nervous tick. He’s twirling it with a Virginia Slim, sipping a Manhattan and talking about “the good ole days”. Robert Truly. Satsquash snowboarding down a mountain because this reality must be fiction for somebody. Marvelous, tipping daisies, nuclear siren, rainbow, raincloud again. Dinner for two under dark skies on rooftops. Romance page-turner, barn-burner, fast-learner. Voraciously consuming literary confections like appetizers or desserts on the dessert cart. Eclairs and puddings and slices of cake, thick cream and soft pastry. Slam on England’s gates, slam on England’s brakes. I can’t help but fix. Car crash waning outside Buckingham Palace. Socially distanced Queen. Creator of nuts and –