There are days when I am a machine, churning out words.
Not the mind's manifestos, but the heart's need to imprint.
There are days when the ink is oil, smeared on my fingers.
The shame of pages I have snatched at too quickly.
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Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot -- And whether pigs have wings.
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- Falstaff
- Minneapolis, MN
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2007
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December
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- Travelling
- The Bag
- Fitzgerald
- Annunciation
- Civil Parenthood Revisited
- Civil Parenthood
- Notes towards a definition of poetry
- Conversation
- The Machine
- YATTL : 2007
- The Death of the Blues
- Most depressing news of the week
- Old Flame
- Why me?
- The Importance of Being Ugly
- Dedication
- Ameriques
- Math
- First Snow
- Thetis
- By any other name
- The Bookmark
- The Unkindest Cut of All
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December
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2 comments:
Oh god...no!
and some of us visit your words warehouse first thing in the morning. gobble all your awkard oil stained inkless words for breakfast.
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