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I guess what I'm realizing is that I'm bad at consistency.
Dick Fancy wanted only this, wanted a place in which to put forth effort with minimal pressure and maximal joy, and yet the pressure seemed to override the joy at some point last week, making Dick Fancy a postless blog. Dick Fancy begs you not to pass judgement quite yet regarding its consistency. It is trying. All it can do is try. It wishes you only the best though, and hopes you wish for it the same. Dick Fancy aims for the best, wishes to ride the waves of bestitude into a brighter future of work and postings and love and pleasure and contentment and friendship and good-tidings and cheer and general benevolence. But, sometimes, good people of the universe, of that crudest of words, 'the blogosphere,' we are beset by our own perceived limits. See, Dick Fancy grew tired of itself. Grew tired of the smallness of itself, and took steps backward, further into the dim light its own resistance.
Dick Fancy, continuing to speak of itself in third person, also wishes to inform you it is on some strong homeopathic cough medicine right now.
Because Dick Fancy has a cough, not because it wants to get high. Just to be clear about it.
There are just these everyday struggles that come from being human and sometimes catching cold/coughs, and so many other things. It is frustrating being laid up in bed, for the third time in a relatively short number of weeks. It is frustrating feeling creatively stagnant.
But we shall all push through. We shall continue to abide our original promise of putting forth work without necessarily worrying on its perceived 'goodness,' or 'rightness,' or inherent value. It is work for the sake of work. For making work, and for delivering it, in whatever state it may find itself, to the good people who are kind enough to look upon it.
That being said, I have for you a mostly un-edited, likely still-to-be-completed poem. I will make no apologies for it other than those implicit in what I just said. No title as of yet.

And if she offered you her body

lord would you take it, though she is not

one of your terrible sons? Though she be

bereft of forehead marking

describing all the ways

she was built to disappoint?

Though she be clear-eyed

careful, too careful

perhaps, and though old men with crushed faces

do not call out her name as they pass through

the gates where she stands, waiting to be led, waiting

for the wood box before her bed to open

of its own volition, beaming

answers through its rice-paper

scroll. How many hours has she chanted

blind to the night, ceramic string of Christmas

lights tonguing the white walls

rainbow for a thing that cannot spring

full-formed out of nothing, hands

outstretched to pull her back to herself or to the self

still learning its parts, summing them

slowly to unsolid answer. Answer

enough, at least, to blurb herself

to strangers at parties. To make them wonder

who made her, at the songs she was sung

as she fell to sleep in her father's

arms, mother, too, singing

close by, off-key.