Write on leaking tailings of a pond
When I’m a thousand words short
For what should have been done
Before the flood, before the shots
I tell you, this is meant to be a blog
But it came out enjambed—cut lines
Can I have this workshopped?
Then they’ll say, it’s about sex again
“you have tone control. Restraint.
A sense of quiet desperation…”
Thank you Mam, fellow maniacs.
But I swear, it’s my subconscious boner
Those were slips, not my poetics
Or is
it the same?
I’m so behind. Blame it to chronic
Mind fog and sleeping thirteen hours
And sitting, and working, and staring
When I forget what I was doing
Do not misread, I couldn’t
Be gladder to have this desk,
And for schooling, and writing
Perhaps I’m just missing
Strength training. No, I’m kidding.
Perhaps Tofu hotdogs, lounging,
And not rushing. I’m never sure.
Bring me pacing, bring me peace
Find me serene. Compare me
To chaos subsiding like Ophelia saying
“read well, decode, detect,
and love me when I seem to hate.”
and love me when I seem to hate.”