letting myself
not see signs
everywhere
[in a life
absolutely inundated
with overwhelming coincidence]
letting myself
not see signs
everywhere
[in a life
absolutely inundated
with overwhelming coincidence]
creation mixes magic
with science
and i think you’ll find
we’re all adept
at both
[if we just believe]
nothing like reading
other people’s poems
to make me feel like
a fraud
a fake poet made out of
three tiny actors
in a trenchcoat
a fake poet made of
a whole slew of fake mustaches
attached to fake noses
and prescriptionless plastic glasses
a fake poet made of
a whole buncha prose
lined up
in shorter
stanzas
a fake poet made out of
experiences
pondered
[but maybe
that’s all a
poet needs to be]
i don’t really know
what i’m writing this morning
i just know
i wish i had
some
dopamine/serotonin/anything
to keep me company
through this season
~~~
is my
not having
an up-to-date phone
just a reminiscence of being
four versions out of date
in my aol/internet service
and therefore
a form of
comfort?
~~~
writing poems
and hearing the rhymes
that didn’t make it in
but somehow
making the poem
fuller
is a weird sort of poet magic