Archive for July 26th, 2013
Haunted by Small Yard
With slow march,
up to mow the lawn,
I slobber in the kitchen sink,
lift my chin to look out
the window on my tiny
world, to anticipate my chore,
only to see bodies
interwoven, crusted over
with bits of attached,
rotted flesh, tainted or
painted with brown, or
sepia, from Instagram,
and I said, “Those were
the old days,” and I
closed my eyes.
.
You Too Can Write a Novel in 30 Days
I’ve been sold on so many things.
But I’m slow.
Too slow.
Too old to be slow.
Might die in 29
if you only give me 30.
Need infinite time
to create infinite art,
but I’m a wasted old man.
Accept my lack of time,
knowing my dreams are
infinitely stupid.
Dream I might write one,
just one, artistic poem, but
while I might finish,
it will never be good,
so I’m at peace
with my infinite inadequacy,
fueling my hopelessness,
but fighting my restlessness,
and putting it away.
.
No More Blocking
Not working on block-
ing. Hiding is a load of
work. Nerves inside holes
that are pricked, excruciat-
ing pain, anger at good things.
.
stillfugue 