the choices before me are amorphously creative
and mountainly questionable.
they summon the same uncertainty
I imagine you might encounter before
a blank screen (scream) or canvas; Yourself,
your cells saying, I don't know how to do this.
This courses through my nervous system on a
daily, hourly, minutely basis: this feeling of
ignorance and incompetence
the scratch from which I scratch out a picture or
a book I will never finish.
This is a life I know
I am beginning to
I will survive each daily small death
that is life over which I feel
I have so little control and
under which I cower
like a cowardly lioness