This Writing Habit

I've tried the advice of all the writing gurus. Sorry, it doesn't work (for me).

I’ve been told by every
Tom, Dick and Mary
the know-it-all,
writers-in-residences
and all them jazzers …
been told that even if
you don’t have anything to say
a writer needs to sit there
and write even if they
don’t feel a thing ‘cuz
writers are muscular
and need to flex and workout
bluff and huff and puff
’cuz it’s a job, a grind
plus you never know
what you might find on
the craps table of creativity.

So here I am writing,
even though I have nothing to say
even though it’s such a beautiful day outside
even though nobody’s ever gonna read this
even though I’d like to just draw a bath
and sit there, all hot and unbothered
by the need to nurture my grotesque genius.

I’m not sure this works for me.
This, writing as craft dinner
write every day, consistently, thingamajigger.
Not sure at all.
Why not let the muse come to me?
Why must I always be the loving one?

Gary Snyder once wrote how
poetry came to him;

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light

Maybe I should try that.
Maybe poetry is more
out there than in here.
A man can only whack off
so much until
something breaks.

Let me go
make me a fire so
she’ll find me,
then walk
into the dark just
far enough so I can
capture the whites
of her forever eyes.

Sure beats sitting here
inside
sitting in my corner
sucking my thumb and
doing what I’m told.

Anyways,
got this poem to show for it.

Written May 08th, Gary Snyder’s birthday, after a long day on the bike. Riprap.