The poetry’s gone to **** lately.
Mostly I mean there isn’t much,
but what there is isn’t that good.
Maybe, *******, life’s just
not awful these days.
Maybe my eye for the magic in the monotony’s just gotten
lazy.
I feel too good to even resent whatever it is
making me limp-dicked.
“coward,” I think.
“******* coward.”
And in a minute,
the coward I am,
I’ll probably set this page down,
unfinished
walk to the television,
turn it on
and submit
like a coward
like a corpse
belly-up
under a sky of infinitely small pixels
flashing on
and off
on
and off.
(love poem for a computer screen)