Dogs 2011

MORTALITY MUSE
(3/30/11)


I type

dying
a little
line by line
letter by letter
with no better purpose
other than to encroach
upon the end
of another
page

maybe
that is
enough

"you'll never
be published
you know"

combining
the contemplative
with the active
seems
a decent method
to stave off
madness
until death

perhaps
the words
and images
do only
distract me
from true
enlightenment

or
from true
insanity

"everything
that you write
is either too depressing
or too detached
to be interesting"

they do
save me
somewhat
for the ridiculousness
of existence

the daily
dismal routine
eroding my foundation
to eventually topple
this pooped
pomposity
of self
back
into the waiting
dirt

purpose?

I am
alive
so I
keep
on
living

what else
is there
to be done?

"why don't you
go outside
and find something
constructive
to do?"

I guess
there will always be
"outside"
to occupy me

I back
away
from the desk
look
at my feet
for a few
then get up
to search
for suitable
shoes

one day
there will be
only inside

until then
I write

and work
in the
yard