Shambolic

Only

54 minutes left in poetry prison.

Deciding if I want to leave or not.  In glass,

’07 Reserve Cabernet.  This blog, my Bay.

Want to stay.  With poems, not so much the blog.  I

feel haunted by words, language, pages, potential

manuscript.  See Self reading, expressive swells bleeding–

Switching my mode, just for a second.

If this were a true prison, I’d be in the waiting room

before exit.. departure, or separation.  Whatever it’s coined,

called.  Either way, I’m letting Self out at 11.  Maybe.

Now that I think, I didn’t write as many versed pieces

today as I did the last couple.  That deserves penalty, doesn’t it?

How much longer should I be forbidden from sentence’s

form, the paragraphs–  Wait, why am I doing this?

To have more independent efforts.

Poem, a project.  On its own.  I’m tired.

I won’t lie.

I don’t want to lie.

Me, the exhausted, full, lazy lion.  Looking at her book,

on couch by me, left.  She smiles, holding flower.

I bend brow, intently in moments I think are mine.

Langston, do you see what I’m hoping for?  If not, then push me.

To something.  Anything.  I’m too old for attempts.

Need product.  Something to pedal.

Do poems get pimped?

Hate that word, but really…

Ready to jump at another page.  In this cell?

No.  Outside, with this inside scope.  Self-macarizing.

What else can I do.  Especially in this seat, right before I’m released.

40 minutes.

Hoping I get daedal, so I’ll step decalescently.

Hot, cold– angular, forward.  How cares.

She tells me to leave, be free.  Hmm, I say.

Free.

What does that mean?  Suppress my questions.

Branch fall, just to side.  No gust.

Just my fuss.

Gate separate.  Walking.

Offend repeatedly.  Intentionally.

So can have my bed back.

It’s made.

I want to lay.

 

12/12/12, Wednesday

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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