most definitely probably for certain the very last one.

this poem is its own special 
kind of hell. you can’t tell 
because it just keeps un
-raveling, but it’s rapidly 
traveling too far south. 
it’s opened its inky mouth 
and now it can’t stop 
spewing phrase. you’d 

be amazed by how many 
days she can ramble on 
and on 
and on 
and on,
the same old song
the same writ wrongs 
the same unquiet sway. 

but look, she’s got a bright 
new bow. you know she’s 
gonna shoot it far and show 
it off and give those stars 
a what-for shout. 

she’s not all that i am
-bic, no designer lines 
or long fine phrase. 
she’s a little stuck
-ato, truth be told, 
small stories folded 
into pillow-case lines
(with too many 
comma sheets in 

she sighs a lot 
and tells little white 
lies and tries to weave 
some small thing 
that might stick 
(cue the wind); 

she’s schtick and tired 
of the unholy buzz 
of wayward sonnets 
in her brain,
the un(qua)trained 
words that run amuck,
and unheard. 

absurd, this clacking of 
black to blank 
page, this ungauged rage 
of keys and pen. 

(she quits it, daily.)

and then smiles 
and starts all over again. 



In November, we poem.

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