I built this desk higher than was reasonable.
Apparently, I wanted the pleasure of my own excitement
more than a comfortable writing life.
The legs rise, Dr. Seuss spindling, a long
way toward ceiling, and I bungee corded an aviator
seat onto a tall stool at a breathtaking angle so that
I have to be very careful sidling my **** up and finally,
oh, er, off, on! This batting about of language, at great
heights is not for the faint of heart. It’s much
warmer up here, and I’m too high
to get down. So I stay a course through powerful urges
for Chips with Dip or One More ******* Load of Laundry
and occasionally, in my bored
willingness, I stumble
upon some shimmering confluence
of words that makes me want to rip out
my hair and buy a new howl, or spend
my life trying to become
a white sheet, hanging alone all day
with the sun and the wind and then the stillness of night
and the dew, leaping from blades
of grass to sway a ways with me in this
soft shiver of not yet morning.