The short poems, I don't know what to do with them: the cardboard box of mewling kittens left on my doorstep. There's is a hole in my T-shirt right where my bellybutton is. I wonder if that's how the inspiration gets in. The words just jump out at me. Out from the dark. And they have vampiric tendencies. (Bite me.) That is the general thrust of the plot. So much at stake. I don't remember shutting off the light, and a book's a rather hard pillow to dream upon. But my back's the stronger for it. The words come in short bursts. Sprays really, the flower kind. Bullets of love. Upon reflection, the weight I carry in the bags under my eyes sags my shoulders and bends my track. Back then, things were different. How? Put the thoughts into gear. Drive. See where they go from here. Drive. The morning eggs me on, and I I joust with a piece of toast. The yolk runneth over. And there's more coffee too. Hot. On the trail. That shadow follows you, Close enough to get in your sneakers and breathe for you. Jogging memories. If you write half-a-dozen poems before you get out of bed, what do you do with the rest of the day? Anything.
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September 2016
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