Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Before Morrow

Pause, levitate in mine own laws. What does that mean, surely not sure. But these lines catapult my cure. No more barreled extract. Need to remain intact. Working on a poem, but needed cesura, immediate. But still, my stasis, stale, pale. No avail.
Topic next, the incoming. July, with the forward. Time, not something I want to taste. A vile vintage. Onward I curve, with these words. Not worried about the Chair’s flares. She’s an out-of-tune horn, playing to an uninterested audience. She can’t crack this calm Cabernet. Excited with the coming day. Won’t ever present Self as phony sage. Textual trace, the wavering wage...

(Tuesday 6/8/10)

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