I.
this is
what
words
amount
to—
festivals
of ash,
collapsed
into urns,
held
up by
timid folk
for the
bold to
scatter.
II.
Poems are
train-wrecks
that move— to stand
on tracks, to do
so solidly, is
suicide of a high order—
to die by force
of wreckage—
III.
On why it has to be that writing
comfortable garbage is the inevitable
byproduct of living comfortably, with
each fresh hell I wonder why the hooks
towards artful utterance are set this
way, & why I must become such an oyster
just to confer into a leaking bucket,
insecurely hung from abraded cables,
a blue droplet not even of blood but
of nectar, or wine, or whiskey—
IV.
Times you get
bored
with the process,
but
worse are times
when
words are little
deaths,
wrung out like
sheets,
draped over
hangers,
out in a damp
yard on
a cold autumn
day, as
wind rises to pin
them
to your hopeless
breast.
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