#foxyqueue

[foxachu]

[Image description: A poem by Tumblr user elucubrare titled "The Oracle Gets Writer's Block"

It's not, Apollo, that you're not there. I feel you. You're pulsing at my temples, hiding under my tongue, trying to get out, unable to cross the barrier of my teeth. I can't tell what you want. At all. From me. You run in my nerves, in my blood, in my neurons. You are the electricity that opens my eyes. Each impulse is you: when I want to go, to leave, to find the straighest road I can and just drive, as fast as I can -- as your chariot can; and when I want to dig into the sweet earth, burrowing like a mole, to make the walls of my cell bright with color; and when I look out and up into a sky I barely recognize -- all of that is you. But it says nothing to me. None of this leads to speech. I remember when you gave me lines -- the seed to grow a poem around -- when you told me which king to misdirect, which lover to inspire. You're throwing chaff against the wind, Apollo, and hoping that my mind is fertile enough ground that somehow something will grown. You're wrong, Apollo. It's too much. You can't saturate me like this, just in case someone will drop something into this solution in my head -- in my body, in my veins -- and make it crystalize. I need something solid, something real. I need to have planted that seed for a reason: for the dirt to be pin-pricked with the green of sprouts throwing off their coat of earth. Everything I do, if given care, must flower. Apollo, tell me. Tell me rain. Tell me sun. Tell me blooming.

End description.]