Idle Hands
I’m looking at a screen with blue edges,
The screen is not so white it has millions
dots of black hidden I the vast whiteness
I try to write down words or two,
let them fly and find their own way, but there
is nothingness that has a past or future
Before when writing in the night I had a beer
or two to help push me forward, draw
and Idea out of me, now unkind stillness.
I get up can’t sit here wasting my time
I try to read a book it is usually an overlong mess
written on a word processor fit for a secretary.
Poetry too is self-indulgent and some are full of words
so rare as written by on academic to another,
Do not let the people in. Anyway I have retired from
poetry and the tyranny of show, do not tell
I'm free as the none appearing bird on the screen-