Experience may be haunted
with the ghosts of inclination,
but the literal is (really)
the strangest caprice of all.
After all,
I'm not a crow,
I am not
some bumbling bee
I am rooms and spires
filled with old spores;
I am blue mold,
hungry and stubborn.
I might have been outlawed
but I am also sheriff
and game warden
of this space on the page.
Right now, I'm all of the
dark feelings you could mention
which stand for themselves
and don't require poems
to get attention.
Nothing in these lines
is levitating. Even the most
fantastic books
don't just magically
fly off the shelves.
The most prolific words
describe lack,
a crying need
for help.
I am long past giving
up
writing
about myself.
