narrow my realism

for the sake of

what, suspected, I’m an arsonist, or

I will be, I’m about to

burn one of my own books,

so what does that make me,

wait let me– yes, okay, this I think I

said in another note I wrote

to mySelf, one morning before work, when

I was in one of my moods, sipping a cooling mocha and

eating one of those breakfast burritos,

in the market’s parking lot, this is so much

a writer’s foil, tall toil–

eating a candy I found in the

freezer, peanut butter,

my favorite, return to

the child, when things weren’t so necessary, or expected, or planned,

why does sit have to be mapped out, protractor’d,

that robs, I’m robbed, and

thinned, more than the road they set

me on, why can’t it taste this good, where are

the keys, the curls to a better ride?  I’ll

go for co-Colossus,

don’t think, just go, I’m riled but

sought slow, and that’s another song I’ll have to

somehow fake, more leaves

get a rake.  hope sincere,

that letter was already sent to supposed supporters.

light another match, for the writings in my desk.

hope the smoke heads west, to the pest press.

(6/26/14)