Torment of the manuscript
Must you summon me, dear manuscript,
or would you in benevolence just appear?
You once called, like a siren; but
also like a womb, a place of solace
to which I returned before I became.
I now call you. At the top of my lungs
I call. What haven can I offer?
Do you not settle here, seeking grace elsewhere?
You cherished page, nearly-blank;
end this harsh estrangement.
The struggle: sanctity through ardent toil.
A cleansing, the process to remake oneself
every time. To reinvent, every time.
Do I now withhold my own blood,
which I once so fervently shed?
Shall I fling a ditty upon your blank staves?
Would you harbor an incidental nocturne?
Perhaps a “single-idea” etude (so-called).
Would that dress the still-bleeding
wounds of this gaping decade?
Oh, summon me now, you holiest of blank stares,
for I have a masterpiece waiting.
— Bob Falesch, April 2012 (read at SLAP meeting this date)