Saturday, April 19, 2014

April 19 Poetry Draft


This morning,
dressed like a vagabond,
poetry parkurs off the wall,
falls, sumersaults, lands on its feet
like some lucky cat.

I eat apple slices while I practice,
tap my feet like Mr. Bojangles,
as if I hold an ounce of talent
in anything other than my fingers
which yodel and howl on the keyboard,
the one with the A worn away. 
There is no time for another bad poem. 

There is no time for writing.
There is no time left for me or you or thinking
or taking a walk in the April air
or slipping the dog leftover cheese
or dusting the monitor.  There is no time
for prayer rugs or talk or theory.
 There is no time for philosophy or baking
chocolate chip cookies or ironing wrinkled white shirts.

There is no time and not much else left,
other than oracles from another generation.
And those folks were a lot smarter than me.

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