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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