Drinking Ripe Orange Juice

I do not want to force creativity to come, but if I must use force, I certainly will. I will punch a muse in the throat to catch a cough of a few good words. Squeezing the orange, slurping up the juices as fast as possible, before the fruit ever becomes ripe.

Too often, I want to find the significant in the trivial, when things are truly trivial. But nothing ever is– trivial, I mean. Everything can be made to mean something; everything can be a symbol. Every simple thing I do might signify something greater, some unconscious transformation which will seem like catharsis, but only seem.

So you try to be inspired. Find beauty in everything, every cockroach and crack in a brick wall. Discover God’s face in a piece of toast, worship it by never tasting it.

Sometimes, we try to wrench poetry from what is uninspiring, and when the angel raps on our window glowing with divine truths, our hands are too weary to transcribe what she says.


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