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.
