The Blank Page
the blank page (see in Gallery and Store) | image by Bruce Harris
Today I walk toward a worthy thought
and the impetus to mark it down
Whether by forced scribbling or scratching
numbing the fingertips
dirtying the plastic keys
Whether flat voiced dictation
mumbling at my soiled palm
like a madman
It is all the same
Early man staring at a blank
rock in a blank cave
with a dumb blank face
I wait long, too long
If I shout into the void
no echo
no shape to walk toward
and yet I should keep walking
and so I do
Finally
an old house abandoned
a borderless waterless field somewhere
in the middling American expanse
It is a timeless and worrisome
thing this venture into the barren
field between my ears
To come upon an old farmhouse made of dried wood
and dried tears and dusty laughter
howling between its walls
The ceiling is rusty rings
stained where storms gathered
where water finally fell
where lightning lights the brow
of a deadman leaning over a well
Am I the deadman? Am I the well?
Maybe I am the stars glinting
through the porous roof
Maybe I am black space
Maybe I am called up and out
to those empty skies
looking for something to love