2nite, no prose, avoid it in droves; ink marks, on
many parts of my clothes, bones; overdosed in emboldened
throws. Recite forgotten rhymes to sidewalks, even when
my mind balks. Time talks only to assigned blocks. Even
still, the dialogue of interactions progresses ill. The
IPA, why me stay. Find Self in a tavern only lighted by
lanterns; decisions churn, while month incisions burn.
The following evening, only thought; each capillary in
clot. Floor, officially mopped. Reign, topped. Their lane,
cropped. No need for grammar, formalism’s hammer;
or any meaningless banter; actual vivacity hampered.
Follow no lead, I’m of separatist seed; unsteady steed.
You rely on however many bands to help you stand;
my advice, find a new strand or be a true can’t; and then
you criticize and complain. What exactly is your strain?
Only far-fetched aims straining in your veins. We, solo
Literary wild types, don’t aspire for sane. Yelling or telling?
Maybe both, depends on the note. Sometimes a poet’s
a bloke cloaked. Hardly afloat. My paragraphs, blare at
maps. Hoping to scatter opposition.. but does it matter?
My stock’s in vision. But a bit blurry. Exploration sudden.
Hesitation button. Certain circles I’m loved in. But then what,
if I hit a block, or miss a talk. Conversation laceration. Need
more safety than a simple maybe. Our contrast, ideological.
Ripples, seismological. Temperatures, in rise high, so I oblige
odd invites. Late nights, just in front of screens, the wine blended
with me. Innings in 3’s, ceased. These weeks, strong meeting meek.
De-clutter to free hover, in a tree’s stutter. Interviewed in cinder plumes.
Hard to breath when the stars seep ease; paradox, but then my merit’s
mocked. Alarm, loud. Ejected from dream’s cloud. Progress, makes me
feel proud. No need for plans.. I’m with hand, holding pen, unfolding when
the table’s cold with ten blocks of ice, next to my laptop. Enough of that, stop..
My life, only on pages; remembering what I was taught.. one of the avant-garde
sages, unable to be bought. My consciousness in metaphysical knots. Have
I written that before? The moment, remolding itSelf in my pores. Reservations
restored; my free thought deplored; I’m alive through 3 doors– I try to keep score.
(8/4/12, Friday, 10:55pm)