Gasping At Dry Land

A man walks, tugging his tie, loosening buttons, messing his hair, and pulling minature telephones from his ears. He shuffles his feet, avoiding cracks and wads of wet gum. He follows the yellow signs, looking at their letters and arrows but too familar his eyes only wander. A baby crys next to him on the E Train and he can't help but scowl. In two stops his foot is stepped on by the man with graffiti on his arm. After the third, the screaming baby is finally carried past the yellow sliding doors. The man sighs, wipes his hand over his tie, and stares at his scuffed shoe...

...and then I go blank. For some reason this blog Friday has left me like a fish out of water; my gulping mouth opens and shuts as if I could somehow swallow the words I wish to say. I write a sentence, delete a sentence, think a phrase, shun a phrare, even type out an entire stanza only to erase it three seconds later. Maybe after work today I'll come home, wipe the sweat from my brow and let my fingers do the talking as I dunk my head in a bucket of wet inspiration.
-Toby K.

Writers Write

As of late, I have been flushed with literature inspiration. Novel ideas, segmented sentences, fluid rhymes, have all flowed through my brainwaves crashing into my skull and then retreating with the tide. In a days time, with all my thought's, I find myself, in one moment, looking out from the tallest tower in a castle from a land far far away, then in the next, I'm smelling freshly cut grass from a field that stretches out past my 19th century home. Rather than pulling out a pencil and scratch-piece of paper to write down these rivers of fiction styles, I store them. They begin by resting in the back of my head, making home with other melancholy thoughts, and then begin to move slowly through my blood stream till they've made permanent residence among my bones and arteries. Someday they will be made into ink and be stamped on pages tied and bound with a funky black and white cliche cover of a tree resting over a riverbed or of a sunset in the August afternoon; but for now they will remain imbeded in my flesh, creating in me a charcter and personality that can only be described through words.
-Toby K.