every word is
futility stuck in the
keyboards like thick,
obsidian oil and the typewriter
clicks and it clicks and it
clicks its asinine teeth;
mocking the slow sad
lilt of my prose that is
supposed to eat up
the pages, like smoke in your
throat and hey i can’t breathe
kind of eating, gorged— but
instead they just sit and quietly
play in the grass;
they are idle. they
do not swallow
the world like i
want them too they
just sit.