Bad umpire behind the plate at tonight�s Yankees Red Sox game so what is the point of watching? Anyway
I would like to write a poem tonight
as I said to myself in the ladies� room stall at work where I am all too comfortable: I would like, tonight, to write a poem;
I picture myself as I am, on the sofa with notebook and pen
having done almost nothing all day but read articles over the internet, so slow a day I read The New Yorker on-line, even the poems
competing.

Every internet article about Africa leads me to feel the utter urgency of life in the present moment so why read anything else? However
I discover myself writing a poem
the fact is I like my sports news and movie reviews, my crime blotter murders and long silly essays that mention Pepys
void of intention as to either subject matter or form
having kept myself well-rounded since my early training, so assiduously shaping with a potter�s palms myself into a ball
stalling for time.

Normally I do not picture myself writing poetry or see myself planning to write it so what�s with the sudden change of interior view? Whatever
I almost ended this poem already tonight
process is at work, I remain divided from the task by politesse and shame and fears laboriously trimmed but still obstructive:
Third base my immemorial motto and goal
one-liners, for example, within whose secret inspiration I can spend a workday and an evening tangled very almost happily; so you can�t write a poem every night
practically napping.

All things end by their various natures but all certainly end so what is the use of attachment? To repeat
I would like to write a poem that isn�t trivial
the Buddha was right; but that�s no excuse for distant complacency. A look can pierce your soul
I picture myself as I�ve been, very shaky, very as they say dodgy
which would seem to suggest a point where attachment is sensible, so material is the sensation
of caring.

Consolation Site: Oh, ridiculous Brooklyn Eagle!

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