something
the lights flicker
but i remember
it's been said
and done
and better
some something
some Johanna
apparently not here
wherever the hell
that was
i think line and form
all fading
down
over
all into one
meaning something less
than nothing
a form
a shape
still a something
yes
and ok sure
but really
is it worth
really anything at all?
"a poem
is like a naked person"
and yeah
again
ok sure
but one naked
and drunk
running
round
rooftops
screaming blasphemies
just to hear
its own voice
inspiration
that's the hard part
and holy communion
with the saints
of fermentation
of distillation
will only take one
so far
i look on these
bouquets that surround
flowers and bitters
bottles and books
natural and man-made
intelectual, divine
all inspiration
all no never
no not quite enough
and the sleep
it catches up
early morning hours
awoken by sobs
by sadness
by need of secure
by desire
for something more
and all this
these things i know
seen in another
so very hard
to take in
simply stated
a why
is it enough?
the marble salvage
the smallest touch
that makes
all the difference?
and how do i
make it
a something more
from so little a thing?
how can i?
why would i?
even dare
a poem a day
harder than it sounds
nevermind
reality
the poetry
is everywhere
and simply
just waiting
hoping
to be found
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