653 Ways : "Writings"

653 Ways to Waste Your Time

[po’try ain’t points ‘tain’t no grade ‘tain’t be nothin’ but lines and lines of feelin’s and junk like that beyond my feeblin’ and failin’ ole’ mind can’t even spell dunn]

I had enough time to blink my eyes twice
before (and eventually) after I realized the anti-climaticness of the
situation. My reason to walk backed tagged along as I got further and
further away from where I needed to be.
It poured. All down on my face. And all up on my bag. And I
envisioned a miraculous baptism with pellets. A cremation instead of a burial;
my ashes blowing back in the face of my misbehavior.

I proceeded
to find her dry as whistle and leaving her
as soaked as my shirt as it clung to my back

“This is brave. It’s new. And it plays to all your strengths.”

After this I had time to blink three times, no four times
I’m being told I have bags under my eyes and its probably related
to the fact that my nites run on longer than a sentence constructed by Milton during an attempt to allude to the state of Britain (or wherever he was from) and the heavens and earth and angels and God and stuph…I mean stuff.

[don’t gots no time ta’ deal wit’ da’ po’try needs ta’ be tendin’ to my fields and my sheeps their wailin’ ain’t poetry but I guess ta’ ‘dem it might be sumthin’ baain’ and wailin’ them sheep]

I’ve been told I’m more tired than I feel. And I think
Should I be tired?
I yawn like lazy lethargic lions lying in lavender lawns
And decide yes. Yes I should be tired and not only tired
But sleeping.

I want to make an allusion to dragons
And I need to in dent more.
But back to the blinking. I blinked
twice…no three, maybe four times.

[one time this po’try feller talked up a storm about pertension or sumthin’ of the sorts it went straight up down in one ear an out de other yup sir didn’t get nuthin’ used words like posin lack o’ humilty façade but done an prounounced pronounced it with an s sound I done asked ‘im what the hell the front of my house had ta’ do with anything and he done laughed at me hurt my feelin’s]

A second draft is really just a bit of deleting
And the third is deleting those deletions

And maybe the inclusion of a new stanza or two. Maybe all that is really needed is a story. That girl needs a climax…she hasn’t climaxed in years and probably never will seeing her husband is pretty much contained in a coffin positioned perfectly centered in front of the TV.

This idea begs the question:
“Are we telling stories or evoking emotions. Is it void of thought or idea or just a feigned attempt at making someone feel depressed or enlightened. Enlightenment is more existential than anything. The endless pursuit of something to fill up nothing.”

But if nothing is something…ah…forget it, I don’t got time I need to go to work

[po’try is nice an’ all I jus’ don’t feel it er nuthin’ its not like whens I get sunburndt and my skin tingles and I really feel alive like my skins talking to me that’s po’try the skin talkin’ to ya]

Honestly though all that stuph…I mean stuff, about the rain, and the baptism, and the girl with wet bedsheets was really just me beating around the bush.
It is finally autumn and a leaf falls
what now?
I’m too attached.
I mean I’ve self-indulged myself ‘til the last notch on my belt
And as for cohesion? It trembles in my presence!

“I feel a little scattered and empty at the end. I don’t really have a clear idea as to what was going on”

Exactly.

(11.2004)