Week 13: while I continue to process the resplendent, transformative, sublime performance that @fleetfoxes gave yesterday, I finished a poem about how the creative process is merely a rehashing of everything we've ever created before, and that's a good thing.
nothing new
I don't have an experience that you don't already keep in the pocket of your jeans, a wrinkled receipt - so ignore me, crumple the evidence, move outside fight through the walls, quick - get outside outside unfriendly and ill-fitting walls pushing through powdery sheetrock, slamming your heel through splintering floorboards - until all the supple skin the arch of your experience touches is the textured, warm grit of soil the moist smear of clay pouring pebbles across your brow like hailstones inhaling dust and coughing up storm clouds the mist, the pressure, rain - your voice breaks open over dry fields that we have long tried cultivating and through slurry I slog to explain - nothing I say can be misconstrued as new nothing I say can be interpreted as innovative nothing I say can be but repetitive stress injury where your jaw aches when I speak - I can only take the wet earth and mold it placing a gentle idea into your hands hoping that when you look at the shape of it - it reminds you of something you've already seen it reminds you of your place here it reminds you
