a poem for today, 9 December 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of thirteen sentences and its image]
Everybody has a secret face.
And it is an essential condition.
It is this way for everyone in these times.
There's no concept of weekends anymore.
You should get out of the cell block some time.
Remember, this is not a gazelle hunt.
It's like a microwave on my forehead.
The way I walk is just the way I walk.
The problem is particularity.
The muses are not cooperating.
They did nothing to challenge or resist.
There may be another way to get off.
I can hear the chemicals singing.
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