Writing Everyday


You know, the sap

in trees is content

to wait the Winter, but

“Practice every day,” you say;


(But yesterday I slept all day

so it doesn’t count).

So is poetry like going to the gym:

a chore-like ping of time passing?

I’d like to think it’s more a video game—

you need not play every day,

but when you do, get obsessed:

forget to take your mental shower;

stuff your soul on Cool Ranch Doritos and Mountain Dew

until you pursue your corporeal

non-thought to the end of its maze…

…and writing the poem’s end is the boss level—

don’t forget to save your ammo…

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