Sunday, March 18, 2012


New pen.  Reading Lyn’s iteration of
Best American Poetry.  The dots that
people our lives.  The glorious futility
of intellect.  This stuff I (almost must)
stand for without learning too much.
Too much a thing.  Just as important
(or more).  Obviously something is
already here.  Someone walking a
Weimeraner.  A great poem by
Charles Bernstein.  Rotund puffs
of self-importance lemming for a
tweaked-out spotlight.  So then
what?  Do a possibility?  Almost
(almost) artist?  Be a selfish baby
or learn how to make one?  Practice
perfect (intermittent seizure)?  I

believe it is.  I ink work and work
to school.  I knit dress.  I someone
journal.  I vacate.  And did I?  Va-
cation?  For the (I think) sixth
time?  I might live a little longer
and (puff, self, cock, guff) look
back and (cringe?) (cringe?)? 

Maybe no.  Maybe no awe. 
Look back and awe.