It slips out from under you and burns the little baby,
Oh, she was so cute.
Well, we all die.
Ah, so nice not to have an agenda.
Got some writing jobs this week,
Which was cool,
I can't be caged.
Well, I can.
But, something will suffer.
Friend boy reads over my shoulder and comments.
I can't write a letter without him, never could.
He says I've gotten a lot better at spelling and grammar.
I say I've gotten a lot better at not crying during critiques.
And by crying I mean,
Nailing my amputated arms to the kitchen wall.
That's where I work these days.
It seems to be the most finished room of the two bedroom second floor.
I don't know what it is.
The rocking chair?
The only one who sits in it is the kitty.
My grade school best girl had a baby recently.
I bet she has granite counter tops.
The tea pot?
Maybe it's the most equal room.
Maybe it's the widest table
Of all the elephant alley tables we own.
I've been drafting so many audience worthy stanzas lately.
It's nice to scroll like Moses down this ether sea of Amazon weeds.
The truth is there have been some not so nice people this span of ten day or so.
But, I promised myself I wouldn't platform that stuff in this place.
Humans are weird.
He's sketching something in orange right now. Thank the stars. What would I do?
Hard to notice the Saints sometimes.
And poets? Get the right set of glasses, the tightest pair of tote bags, and a pocket guide to silence--
And you too can be a gift gifted smith trader.
Have we learned nothing from Our Town?
Sometimes people ask me about the genius,
Oh, the stories I could tell.
Anyway, there was a nice dinner with the fakes, and my poetry teacher gave me a ride home, and the fat kitty licked my toes, and someone peeled an orange at the desk next to mine, and suddenly it was seventy degrees for no reason, and a piece of water on a shirt, and there was like three servings of bacon, and two Superchunk tickets.
If you can make it to act three, you've made it.