When I started the Johns series the other daythere were certain plans and conditions.
The plan:
crap stories about when I couldn’t hold it in
and had to get creative
on the streets
and on the town
and tried not to be embarrassed
or found myself completely embarrassed
or somewhere in between.

I found that I could associate the stories
with people named John,
a plus, because of the pun,
and because of my name
which is John
(but not quite).
I had two tales ready to go.

There’s a rule of three
that I subscribe to
more religiously
than I do
more than most anything else
but I figured
just this once
"What the hell?
Caution to the wind!
I’ll work on the two
and the third story will come.
I’ll dig deep into the dung
and develop something dynamite!
Eventually, from excrement will excellence evolve!"

I said none of this, of course.
And none of this happened.
I haven’t been able to think of the third occasion yet,
where I could have enough stories
for the endeavor to be worthwhile.
And now I’m stuck.
I’ve got two of these things out there
part of a trilogy
the beginning of something
with no satisfying completion in place.

That’s it.
I’m fucked.
It’s like I whored myself for some half-baked idea.
I pimped my fecund creativity
hoping it would produce results for an army of johns
paying with their interest.
But I got nothing for ’em;
nothing but shit.