a poem for today, 17 April 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of thirteen sentences and its image]
One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.
But I want to emphasize that this is not the course I have taken.
You can't begin to imagine the life you denied yourself.
It always just ends up looking real doodoo-buttery.
You have a kind of sick desperation in your laugh.
This wine certainly tastes a dollar cheaper.
Listen to the people who come inside you.
That's like hypnotizing chickens.
All that remains are memories.
That was our heaven, see.
Bury the yawns Bucko.
I'm still in prehab.
You are weak.
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