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
and on some occasions
our time might be better spent
paying for the 50 minute hour
instead of depositing this quarter
into this particular jukebox
spinning the same
using poetry as substitution
often makes me cringe
as i nod in agreement
with an ever-present