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
Weimaraner. 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.
