6.29

[Three sentences a day has died pretty well.]

Sometimes,
there wants to be poetry, but it can't find a way out.
It meanders about in an underground cavern
of mazes and tricks, an abundance of passages,
and three times too many decisions to make--
but sometimes the poetry finds an escape hole
and burrows its way to the surface to breathe

its times like these when I'm feeling poetic
I wish I had muses or songs I could sing
or thoughts to put into phrases or verses
wait
maybe a knife and a spade and a gun
to shoot all the poeti-lyrici-nations

and bury them somewhere
out of the sun