insofar as I am anything at all.
a writer:
a poet:
a maker-up of things.
someone who repurposes.
stealing elements of reality and twisting them out of shape.
or into love and death.
I also have a job in two states.
a class to teach.
not to mention:
dishes to do.
food to eat and dirty those dishes.
a gym to attempt a charge.
and go to bed at half past nine.
where creative transports ought to go.
there are 500 solid words on the page each morning.
I am ashamed:
no one wants to think of their favorite wordsmiths.
as running errands.
taking shits.
helping friends.
watching TV for hours.
just because I am not hunting lions.
attending posh parties in the West Village.
flying to other side of some place.
does not mean I am not busy with my insular chaos.
without external demands on my time.
while I might seem more free.
I think it would be at the expense of everything.
because I would get nothing done at all.