I talk so much of dead things (I talk too much), I slog through lifetimes mired in it, So it seems like suicide would be close or in the air Or else I’d have no explanation for all this crap I opine and emote, always repining for something else— Who the hell knows what?—in ugly notes like this. I’m not in line for the good stuff, Not waiting calmly for the best, Not even self-deceived that it could come to me As a result of work on any given day or in this way. I’m just making clamor to suspire, I’m just drawing fire.
Current draft: 4/18/2010 Created on 4/8/2010 3:52 PM
This esoteric conceit clumsily conceived by