It’s nearly midnight here, outside Chicago and I’ve written nothing today, nothing is two lines which may or may not get me in and allow me to write something.
in the room with my murderer
Lately thoughts have been churning about constraints and how it may help get me out of this writing malaise I’ve found myself mired in. As a poet there are always constraints but some have been used to their natural end. There are others that must be delved into now to take the word to it’s next logical step.
such heavy air in early summer and in
the southwest it’s drier
This is the writers bondage, there is no free will as even free form is constraining as even flow of consciousness is constraining. this is all that is going to be written right now, this is all there is for the taking.
take it.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 