Often i find myself writing this crap because.
i return to my pages
like lovers who don't
lust, but ought,
so again
i dig and claw
my fragile experiences out
of my head and heart and crush them
in my fist.
They bust open, puff,
like fungus,
and then you have powder fine enough to make ink
or perfume, all
completely different than the expansion
of a good poem, ie. prophetic vision,
which doesn't happen in your fist or on the page
but is a secret whisper that goes
puff in your mind,
that you feed on long after the vision,
like lovers who feed on
a fantasy they had when they weren't in love.
But no, there's no time,
I put off writing all day,
like i have most of the days in my life,
it will just keep me awake anyway.
