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Thursday, April 12, 2018

Nightbooks

Over the last ten years what changed more, my environs or me?

Recession waters sleepydust airs

The last decades last millennia

Guitars and ukuleles plaint poetries hum

My kids point out the minis in the street

“Like Mineola, on the LIRR!”

Blotting away with my fingertip periods specks on the screen

INFP "The Mediator" INTP "The Logician"

Smiles are extroverted

But when I’m alone, writing the poem

I still X out sadness and over-write

Happy on the theory artificial smiles still stimulate endorphins

Are poems those sorts of social bodies

When poetry is only ever marginally poems and poems absolutely never poetry

My buds, my new blossoms

To block the blue

I’d wear the orange eyeshades and look ridiculous

So only wear at bedtime, like orthodontic headgear or sleep apnea devices?

Poetry already has too much age in it

I’m stuffing kids into cottages

Not fast enough their legs already spindling down the stairs and through the doors

And everything else is irrelevant except

The image on the pedestal

I climbed, saying

Apologies for your death, for your imminent demise

What does ridiculous mean?

Mornings in Brooklyn

Are nighttime everywhere else

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