My droll little method lately: if I have nothing good to say, I say it anyway.

I open my mouth waiting for the narrator within to give me words, and when none come I close up again. This is annoying.

I might fight my stubborn prose with poems.

First, I know nothing about poetry other than it is generally done by stacking bits of creative and economic thought together without the idea collapsing.

Morning:

Stepping across yesterday's clothes then prying open a lid,

I, boil, pour, stir.

Making wishes over a cup of coffee.

I ought to shut up now.