where is the writer’s balance…for the onerous task of keeping pretentiousness at bay

is exhausting….how many hours are wasted with the whine and the screech

of self-serving melancholy masked as poetry?   how often can we listen to an unhappy

neighbor’s back fence lament before we start peeking out the windows, timing departures to

ensure that the coast will be clear…how many times do we screen a particular call to avoid a

particular exhaustive human who has been down now ..for years……how long does it take

before we move on down the length of any bar away from a drunk’s barstool rants…

o my poor life!

o the deck i’ve been handed!

o what the world has thrown at me!

o what my weary eyes have seen!

o how this tangle inside my head

contorts and confuses!

even i have grown weary

of what topples onto these pages

sometimes

for some

and on some occasions

for me…

our time might be better spent

paying for the 50 minute hour

instead of depositing this quarter

into this particular jukebox

spinning the same

old

tired

tune…

using poetry as substitution

often makes me cringe

as i nod  in agreement

with an ever-present

ever-watchful

translucent guilt