What was that I needed to get done today?

Well, nothing really—I can barely remember

When they shut us down, shut down my ambition

–“I have to what?!”—”Do what?!”–

That mandated sloth that tells me stall, stop

So I slouch upon my couch, and pass time

At times, I take the time to touch base

With a treasured book—which I never would have

Chasing time filled with needless activity

Chasing a job, a dollar, more money

No money and nothing to spend it on—

I would go to the mall, the bookstore, the casino

And with a home library filled with good books

I never did read, read now—sometimes

When I can find the incentive

And my poems that I organize to send out

Re-read, fix, edit,–search out publishers

When I can’t find the incentive

And just slouch upon the couch

And watch TV that I don’t like

Don’t like not doing what I want to get done

This mandated sloth, this slovenly lost ambition

Not even waiting for it all to be over

Just waiting on time, making time, taking time, time to get something done

Plenty to get done today, and nothing, really


The spell that language is

Isn’t ipsum cast, intoned upon itself

Nor the genesis of poesy the poet’s poeisis

genie, genius, generative daemon

Words birth words in sequence

But wherefore, whereof, and whither this sequence

When we write?

When we read,

Bring meaning to the meant, and infuse words,

While sense sends sensibility sentences

Is there meaning inhering in hearing words?

Or is there readers’ self-translation into the text?

I think genuine encounter, generative dialogue, new genesis

We are more than we were after reading

After meeting art, what became art, the artist’s generation, the artist