Caught in his porn-like grasp,
the pen loses all meaning. This
could be the furthest gone you’ve
come, like a steel drum forgetting
its last few thrummed notes, or a
first generation iPhone left in
a taxi-cab’s backseat crack.
Well, I just did it. I just
hunkered over, gave in,
sent the man one more
“we never had an ‘us’
but let’s grasp each
other to strangulation
so we can finally
have one” note.
Men. When did we start
calling them such. Start
calling him such. Either
I’m evolving or he’s
devolving.
I’m so sure of things. Certain
as ash in the craw of this pipe.
One split second leads to
another. I export each file
five different ways and listen
for the soft cough of the muse
as one after the next they
whistle a burn into the
recordable DVD, then
quietly slip the disc into its sleeve
and just as quickly forget why I’ve
spent eight years rewriting
this ridiculously innocuous
portion of Act I, Scene I.
