i've got it
silence
is the enemy

unless
you talk
too much

why i can't write a poem
muse's day off
barnacles
sandwiches
little bits of things
that have no ring
a ling a ling d ding
today

I have tricks
or I am a trick
or I've been
tricked

into thinking

by evildoers

though I am
slowing down

to where my
imagination
and my
physicality
eat together
sit touching
stay within
arm's reach

for a minute
or two each day

the rest
a slamfest
a wave crest
nothing's best

generations lost
in space
turned inward

i am
certainly
one of these

overcoming
imaginated
knowing

they will
die for
repeatedly

i don't
want any more
imaginings

glorious
imaginings
now ai's land

i'll take
the feel
of this day

over
thought up
thoughtless empires

maybe we've
come around
to nothing left

of dead people's
imagination's way
of guessing us

something wants
a poem
something al-
ways wants
a poem i
am a
bad muse's horse
ridden
like the sick
pale nag
on which i
rag on

There is skin talking to me
about the rub
and your fingertips know
all about
this
if you thumb through them
now
they will tell you
if you know just how
to ask
they'll swirlingly admit
of desires to press
yanked
by some tangle
of fine

Maybe
i wanna write a poem
that i'int
jus uhnother moan
all 'bout
bein alo-ne
an ahbe
bulowin' 'atat