TOO TIRED FOR POETRY
at least other peoples poems, especially the good ones pulling at the sleeves of my mind demanding in the shrill shrieks of spoiled small children their claim on my attention.
Writing semi up hill lying on my back on my rack the journal spine digging into my chest, my stomach rumbles and expels a fart and I turn to a new page, another one without lines to keep me straight.
There is the hiss of occasional cars passing now absent the drunks and whores and loud motorcycles of the night before and awaiting the arrival of hordes of so irritated commuters flooding in to take their place on the treadmill of work.
Writing while lying on your back is a challenge, crossing your legs a to stop them from going to sleep. The unoccupied page flutters in the breeze from the obligatory summer fan. Now bending my right leg my rumbling stomach releases another fart.
I think the answer lays somewhere in the large half printed half written prose while I wrinkle my nose at another dropping of a rose.
My writing doesn’t go straight and always seems to seek the top of the page at the end of a line. Very slight at the top of the page but more pronounced at the bottom of the page,
My morning coffee rumbles through my alimentary tract and although mis-spelled is an audible fact.
The slant is about ¼ of an inch and irritates my order seeking left side while my right side says in New York Mafioso style, “Forget about it.”