Saturday, December 27, 2014


To think well is to serve God in the interior court. Everyone knows the verdict except for me, and I'm the one on trial. I resist your GPS voice telling me where to go, when I much prefer getting lost. The verbs are what's most fun: “getting,” for example, before “lost,” as if “lost” were a bauble. I feel loss, like a rope in my stomach, turning to braid. A list with feeling, she called my prose. I called my prose, too, but it was gone in the woods, foraging for content. I'll trade you content for meaning any day. Let's play fantasy poetry and bring back the freshly dead, like Tomaz who called us idiots because no one knows him, even when he's dead. After to his before, we close with him. He's our late inning closer.

--27 December 2014

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