The Man on the Block

A Poem About Inspiration

Photo by DΛVΞ GΛRCIΛ: https://www.pexels.com/photo/vintage-black-and-white-typewriter-close-up-32836042/

The Man on the Block
12/03/2005
David C. Roberson

I am the man
who lives on the block.
The block locks the shock
and the flock from my stock
of words to describe scenes,
of phrase to devise schemes,
of ends that justify means,
and horrors that incite screams.

I am the man
who will fumble and sway,
and jumble the day
into poems and plays.
Who will only get paid
such a small sum they all say,
but it’s nothing I’ll use
when I lay in my grave.

I am the man
who the block haunts at night.

When you wish for a fight,
or something to smite.

While hoping for something
to write in this blight,
this absence of light,
bundled in blankets tight,
scared of the cold’s bite,
the wrongs that won’t right,
the evil in plain sight,
or the gloomy gray enigmas
cause there is no black and white.

I’m not the man
who is kept up in style,
ready to smile
when the cameras flash wild
with ocean stretched out for miles,
forecast sunny and mild.

I am the man
who shuffles in flannel.

T-shirts adorned with comic book panels.
No shorts or sandals,
 jeans below my love handles.

And no, I’m not the '90s
grunge MTV mammal
who sits on the couch
flipping through cascades of channels.

And maybe that makes me a poser.
A flea market hoser
who longs for some closure,
who wants some exposure,
but can’t keep his composure.

Yes, the block keeps me in,
and I stare at white page
with the heart of a sage
and a mind full of rage,
with the blank screen a stage
for my words and their play,

but the curtains won’t rise,
they simply remain.

So I live on the block
with my head in a noose,
and pray to my God
with some flimsy excuse.

I say I’m just tired of
abuse from the obtuse.
I don’t want to die,
I’m simply all-used.
I’ve blown my one fuse!

I need an annointment,
some mildly mad muse!

Then a thought occurs to me,
and inflicts on my views,

and I remove my fat head
with pure passion renewed!

I feel infused with a new kind of juice,
and I’m fairly certain it can’t be a ruse—

though this piece I have sired, it was partly inspired
by an interest retired, through adult’s eyes rewired
that could crumble this block so obtuse!

So I now tip my hat
to the good Dr. Seuss.

Note: This was written before I was aware of the now-discontinued racist works of Dr. Seuss. I in no way condone that work.