Prose VIII

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Mistakenly, the norm rides on money to be earned from what is produced from the mind, aka me, but sometimes my writing fingers refuse to loosen as they near poetic terrain. Fingers as tips and knuckles that need to become malleable; not tight in a fist and not untapped in a while. So I am back at the nothing screen, blank, thinking someone else inherited all the spaces  of authority and I was not included. I am man-made mostly, a woman of bread crumbs most mornings with no power to look where I will. A herd of devils sit on my right shoulder looking for a herd of white horses to appear on the horizon. I wear a white hat on land. On the sea I wear whatever I can borrow that is warm. Or dry. It’s a writer’s life, but where did all these bread crumbs come from?
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allets
11-15-14
1:39p
 

© allets 2019
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