This Is Not A Poem! |
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My brain is toast lately, and my nerves worse. I've started working on a long poem (200 lines or ao) for the first time in a long while. It constantly wants to get longer and I want it to shut up and stay reasonable. I may have to call up the mericless pest control operator (aka Exterminator) aspect of my soul! But it is not much to talk about, even when I get it finished--it will be too long to spark much interest here, and almost the same if I place it in my poetry blog. I have now worked on the poem so long (so many versions, I mean, this past two months) that I'm puking-sick of it and I don't yet think it's finished. Maybe close to finished, but that's all. I'm hanging up on it for now. If I don't finish it before I die, they can bury it with me. Poetry always loves dead things; often enough, it tries to jump in bed with death. So when I say "Fuck it", things must be pretty bad or about to be |
And a Roadrunner, too
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Alice seemed almost as excited about our seeing new birds as we were seeing
them ourselves. On one of the first days we were there, she yelled
“Roadrunner...
15 hours ago
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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)