beginning the poem
is starting a journey across organs of one body.
a lumpy body that never leaves the sofa
except when falling
while reaching for the tissues.
poetry kills me
more effectively than selling my soul to the devil.
forgetting I had a soul
even when the stars pressure me into knowing.
I'm listening to waltz of the snowflakes, and spring has come
to me like a poetry journal comes to the farmer ploughing his field.
nobody is asking me to begin this poem.
an invented obligation, like that of sitting in the sun every morning
for the sake of the orange juice.
I will never end it either. What I like about endings is:
they cannot end.
the journals keep coming
and spring ploughs away the doubt of start.
___________
Overall, today was exceptionally bad. I sat for a few hours, unable to write a word of sense, and even reading didn't help much. After gobbling up unreasonable amounts of Frank O'Hara (I hope it's not visible in this piece), something happened, I wrote something, I probably won't ever look at it again. But hey, it still counts. It's a poem. Three minutes to midnight. I'd better publish.
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