mmmmmcxiv

The Tattered Cabbage of My Will

is all that is left of my discipline today.
This morning, it was red and fresh, almost
willing itself into a soup, or pickling itself

kraut-wise. Earlier still, it was a game of
cribbage.  At present, the tattered and bruised
wet or slightly rotting vegetable is gone, there

isn’t even a memory of the bold power that it
might become, and perhaps did; to repeat, all 

of the power and the focus are gone.  And I am

gone, sitting here refusing to pick up the fancy 

pen lying next to my fancy notebook, but rather, 

taking umbrage at all of the potential  that is now

gone forever from this nearly vanished day that,

when it began a few short hours ago, was nothing

but endless potential  To repeat, this day has 

turned from potential-laden into nothingness, 

thanks to general laziness and my otherwise 

frittering away of the entire day, which has 

now completely been engulfed by the darkness

of night, the darkness of me sitting here, brain

full of regret, at night, surrounded as well by all 

but darkly recognizable images conjured by windows 

and phones and such, nothing to keep an attention 

long enough to even be sure if the darkly somewhat

familiar looking blip was a remnant of one of those

physical things like a window or a phone or was an 

simply the eflection of an something physical like a

window or a phone.  And so I sit aknist in an

obsidian of darknesswithout a thing in the
world to show for what earlier had been

the beginning of a day that had so promised

to be one of efficient accomplishment.