How to break a block

My brother brought me Bhiman on a December
evening through his phone. Some video with

only seven thousand views, but he was big by now.
Maybe I can be like him. His songs hit so hard
like a smooth rock against a car window. Maybe

I can namedrop more and place picture perfect
similes in and stop rhyming; I’ll use alliteration for
a punch up.


People are beautiful to us when everything seems
to come easy for them. Even the pain. We think,
“look how hard, and still they go on,” and we admire.

Okay, I should bean a poor person’s fender
with a bat, see how they suffer so they can be beautiful
to me. But real songwriters don’t have to hurt someone
to produce. I spin ‘Moving to Brussels’ again.

How does one get inspiration to shake loose?


“So, I guess it’s been a while since I logged a post here. I mean, I’ve recently moved outta the house I was living in due to the landlord wanting to sell it, I’ve gotten a new job, and I’ve been going through some personal things as well… I mean, I also can’t really find my charger for my laptop, and since I’ve just moved out I all of my stuff is just packed in my car. I’m living out my car, essentially. Which is honestly not so bad. It’s kind of fun. How often does one get to live out of a car? (How many people even own cars?) I… I don’t know. It’s easy to come up with excuses as to why I haven’t been super up-to-date on my tiny personal blog that nearly no one follows, and I hate to embody that crappy amateur writer cliché where I just write about how I’ve got writers block and how that’s a major factor as to why I haven’t been posting drafts and updates of stuff. Obviously that has been part of the problem, but really, not so much. It’s not like I’ve been suffering from writer’s block severely; I’ve been mildly ill at best. Or worse. Whatever.

I have written a lot, just it’s on pages of journals and stuff, and what with the move and all I haven’t really found the time to transcribe this the stuff onto screen. Also, I’m terribly unorganized and have no method or reason to my vast collection of unfilled composition books and Moleskine knockoffs, so I don’t really know what I’ve put on the screen and what has stayed on the page. I’m a mess, I guess. Anyway, like I said, I don’t want to be that writer that realizes he hasn’t posted anything in a while and literally just posts something to explain how he hasn’t posted anything just so he can post something so he feels like he’s actually done something creative. So I dunno, maybe I’ll do something different. Maybe I’ll turn this into a piece some weird, experimental poem or…”

Reese sat back in his chair rubbed his hand over his face. He murmured ‘fuck’ under his breath and leaned back on his chair. It was 3 PM on a Saturday and ideally he would rather be doing anything than writing just to write. First off, he wasn’t even getting paid for this. And then, secondly, it didn’t even feel good. It was masturbation just for the sake of jerking it. Like when you’re in high school and it’s summer and your parents have gone off on a trip to Paris and left you the abode to ‘housesit,’ and you’re just chilling around the house naked, practicing physical self-love because, well, what the fuck else is there to do? No good.

He grabbed a flask to his right and emptied it into his mouth with hardly a flinch. What were the signs for being an alcoholic? Of course he hadn’t actually been home in almost two years. The house he grew up in was being leased to random yuppies moving down south from California, New York, maybe Colorado; his parents were playing landlord from Oklahoma because his father had just gotten a fantastic offer for some big-ass, very important, very prestigious High School as a football couch.
Mr. Rae Starks was expected to take the team to state. Reese didn’t care about his father’s profession. Probably because his father always had a job, and as such, always had money. On a related note, Reese always had money, too.

It was high summer, mid-July, and the air conditioning was breaking itself trying to keep Reese’s tiny little one-bedroom at an acceptable 72 degrees. It was comfortable and dark inside. Reese kept his TV off and his lamps unplugged. The only light was from that soft, comforting illumination that laptops exude. Cabin fever was setting in though. Loading up a bowl, stripping off his PJs, Reese threw on a bathing suit and a bright pink tank that he assumed was made for men because it fit him well enough, though he never gave enough of a shit to check. He opened up the music streaming app of his choice, turned up the volume on the speaker dock, and pressed shuffle on his and so many other 20s-something white boys favorite playlist: ‘Ghostface Killah, etc.’

Once, when he was around 12, Reese had visited New York to see his aunt and uncle, but he didn’t go to Staten Island, and he never took a step about 53rd street. Streets were streets, he thought.

Reese ripped a bong half-way through ‘C.R.E.A.M.’ and bounded out the door, mind buzzing, hair still ruffled…