Writing out of the dark. Poems just happen and looking back I can see what I wrestle with, this imaginary entity that hovers over me, my craft. I try to put it all in perspective at times, reaching for some greater meaning. Though I don't learn the ultimate truth, I feel wiser. At least that's something.
"...haul door to door,
to each threshold,
begging the mercies of women
in their aprons,
holding wailing babies,
heaving your literary acumen..."
"Surrounded by the infamy,
copious amounts of crumpled white
that failed to hit their mark,
scattered, make their own formations
on the seldom traversed ground."
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