Start then pause, what for a— new talk, or tick
Tock from a biased clock? Poetry not coming to a writer
Easily this morning but that’s the game, I’m being toyed with,
same, annoyed my veins, so I avoid the train of pattern
And uniform, I assume no form, adorned in new theses from
A singular species, me, expediently…. I stop again, and send self
A new note, one a true cloak, invisible to bruise those that only
gawk, too afraid to roll down their window and ought— they
Say nothing and just keep driving, while I’m journalistically
thriving, further into the meditation, writhing. Ten minutes,
My pen fidgets, ask, ‘When give it?’ How ‘bout now, recite
Proud and stand firm in the dirt, soldier trenchant in his senses.
Thinking about my next letter and how to make it better, not
Necessarily more clever but … with more measure, more un-
tethered. My language, riddled in odd axiom and tone, from
the finest molecules of artist bones.
Sit in the forest and jot every sound, scene, color and beam—
Crawl into a ravine, finish the book there, no stares, no impaired
chair— begin again with another attitude bend, pretend there is
No end, only a consistency of my orated fervency.