and you want to write,
get the insides out,
let the outsides in
you half start
half a dozen,
leave them in the fridge
next to the half finished ones,
on the shelf where the
almost spoiled fruit,
can't let yourself throw 'em
not-quite-yet,
ages on
begging to be finished, discarded
and you want to write...
cull and ****, analogize,
separate the chafe from the sweet,
write about what you want,
which will never be good enough
review the incompletions,
candidates for renewal,
they lie to the left of this
work in progress,
mocking, preening, begging arrogantly,
flaunting failure to your face
and you want to write
but you are the hanging judge,
hung up on the braking shadows
that fight you, make the wholesome sodden words sound
terrible unright trite
and long for the days of might,
torrents of passion that arrived fully formed,
but those sweet place and days are
"currently unavailable"
and you want to write,
so you write of need,
rather than deed,
leaving yourself
disappointed
that you have been culled and weeded
but no flora,
spring sprites spike through
the concretized city streets of your
inabilities
7:18am EST
April 2 2016
nyc
