i wish i could write
half the poem i intend to write.
i sit down to write about fall but it is spring and then summer
half a year away,
ink-splotches onto the tile floor of becoming.
i have sloppily conversed with myself for the better half of a year hoping the haggard gods will come out to play,
hoping the sexual tension with the abyss will be relieved.
i really wanted to pin some greatest hits
to 'win one for the gipper'
but it all tapers off slowly to the tone of a skinny drawl.
i'm done elaborating.
where to go
lost with our limbs tangled in this bitterest of tapestries.
we were all at the table
we were playing poker
we were gambling,
a man with a fedora and a phantom eye upped the ante big time
did we go in?
did we make it?