P-Final P-Throwback Poem P-Thursday... p-well, patleast p-for p-now. Eh, you get the point.
On Writing Timed Essays
Anything but now and here:
Its fear bubbles over my shoulders and down my back
For lack of any better words, the dread
Of being fully dead two tenths of a second before I put a sentence on the page.
And anything like ghosts and piers
Is here inside my skull but not
The rot I need right now instead
Of dead skin ripped from in between unbroken black.
If anything, I'd sell my soul
For cruise control to sow like teeth
Beneath bed rocks of tempting death,
The same as breath, like tax deductible entropy.
And I do, but only for hoards of anything
To fling intent and purchase peaceful cancer,
Not an answer---just an occupation,
Waiting for sensation, like a drug, to rush into my fingertips.
But not a thing could ever trace
The other way; replace cement with rippling tides.
It's fine. But I still wonder
Six weeks under snow plowed ice if I'm the only one who's ever noticed that in those first ten seconds before you pick a poison it feels like you've already died.
