I will look for any reason not to write.
I need to buy belts and shoes online.
There are dishes in the sink.
Television episodes and taxes make
me feel accomplished. I murder
hours at a time trying to avoid poetry.
(Someone already wrote that, that bit
about killing time.)
I use these objects, new jackets and hot
chocolate, to hide behind (someone
already wrote that, too). I'm using enjambment
(everyone does that). It is dark in Chicago
(I'm changing the subject, we do that
when the end is coming) and I've barely begun my life.
(And I'm thinking of a title now, before I
even know where this is going.) (Maybe "Spolier.")
The trains and the waves mimic each other.
(This is about, apparently, the parallel nature
of life, the universe, everything is echoed
and re-coded, nothing is new;
somebody already wrote that.)
When I write "life" what do I mean?
The trains and the waves crash together.
The trains and the waves carry us.
The trains and the waves don't distinguish themselves from me.
The trains and the waves lose devices everyday.
A thousand kisses for you.
We repeat ourselves to death.
I am so thankful for this.
ER
