Head butt
or the day I finally
take a pile of papers off the hook
and lay them out on cold mental table
in the so-called
"cafetorium"
and right only on the backs
of them what I'd really like to do
instead of contemplating the same endless
suicidal thots I process every time I choose
between my day job and my real job
managing a life that doesn't want
a day job
Oh, what a life, eh? Oh, what a life, alright!
Exclamation points because they're popular now
in somebody else's writing (poetry, somebody
else's, naturally), although they point to
Start another sentence delete that type Life
Sentence however many letter spaces from "To begin again"
which was in another life, actually, so
what
does this sound like, as if that matters
it doesn't
and it does, NO
what joy
wherever "you"/? end it
it ends and then
you get busted (up)
for "closure," ain't it a crime, ain't
that a shame, ain't you misbehavin,
ain't a way to keep going on
and on (Yes, I already did that -- in a poem in
Behave that Grenier liked,
kinda sorta maybe, anyhow)
for an hour or for a couple more minutes
Well, to be honest with ya,
whoever I am,
this whole thing, the whole stuff,
about "writing poetry," it's completely mindless,
really
it is, and there must be a way
to get out of it
without any serious repercussions or concussions (why don't you put that on the next line)
too late now
to go home
and have dinner
not really, fuck this stuff.
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