October 18, 2004 - 2:13 p.m.
waiting, watching the clock
it's...
not four and yet time seems to keep slipping, as i let it, through the seive of my brain,
strained thoughts
remain
and i'm dripping poetic conceits
waiting to prove all i know
which may well be all i need
when subjectivity
is key
my mind is toying with rhymes
and each wasted word brings me closer to the time of trial
ginsberg, plath, o'hara and rich
I am wealthy in ways i'd never dreamed of
rich with poetic intent and my pained desire for affirmation
knowing that i could/would woo you once more
to win your regard
so long as it begins aphabetically, chronologically.
back to the beginning
it seems we've made a poor start,
as any poet must,
beg the forgiveness of gentle readers,
begin low
and all you can do is win
to reemerge Bolingbroke, as the sun,
now brighter in the longe eclipse of night.
and I must now appologize for my hands, messenger of my tongue...
i must appologize for that tonge.. because I am not master of it... like Jack's tongue, Whelan's amiable villain, when you must appologize for your dog that's gotten loose and bites someone,
"there you have it, my tongue is my dog"
and tonight,
tonight we may yet see it dance,
i may teach it new tricks
for I am not so old.
