a poem for today, 14 January 2012
[a syllable-sorted sonnet of seven sentences and its image]
Stop me if I’m boring you, but each of them feels oddly poetic, in its ability to smear or stifle.
It was icky, and I picked that crap out of my hair for a week afterward.
It has a pressure sensitive bottom so be careful when you set it down.
I keep a text file open so that it will seem like some work is going on.
Pervasive unsatisfactoriness seems more the issue.
In the middle of the night, the spiders crept out from the attic and went back to the living room.
Time for the umbrella.
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