poetry books filled with slime
pages of this year’s books
full of damp
covers of paperbacks curl upwards
what was the problem?
not enough rigor
no motivation
or a crowd of lesser, but easily got, satisfactions
blunting the will
and spelling the death of hustle
not enough witches
not enough wolves in the throne room
not enough darkness on the throne
perhaps there was never enough geometry
to begin with
I sure as hell neglected
mine
LASS UNS LEBEN
scream the German elephants
which if I had the imagination
I would totally do
why does my cellaphone smell
like meat
why does my plasama screen
smell like alcohol and mold?
why do all creatures run away from me
how far in that direction am I
allowed
to travel?
