writer's bloc.

digits at a standstill, in mock apprehension
as i await, forever
that crucial piece
to fill in the berlin wall

the iron curtain, obstructs my clarivoyance
WMDs launch, split second
those crippling towers
to construct multi-tented cathedrals

the KGB, they whisper white noise
fuzzy signal, momentarily
the storming spetnaz
to arrest my train of thought

so then i force myself to write thus
for without i can't hope to heap score upon score
call it the missing link, the last piece of the puzzle, the ace in the hole, the deus ex machina.
call it what you will.

you're that missing brick, dammit!

back to being, being.

so you transverse entire lengths,
take a hike of certain laps
see the stars, the moons,
and all the pretty dust around town.

so they shine, and i don't.
but here i am, and here is now.
kj is back again.

ratatouille.

it's funny, dramatic, absurd even, to see that a motley crew of inept chefs could whip up the winning dish despite lacking all the key ingredients.

i think this script won.