converse [2011]

I have been empty and overheated

I've no idea what my noise might be

loneliness has led to emptiness

my poetics is slipping from me

I am failing to renew necessary energies

this is a complaint-based art form

my liver is surrounded by me     and is being choked

music has become bland to the taste

papers are not poetry     but are due just the same

perhaps note-taking is the way to make a resurrection

I've never seen my ass across a crowded room

working toward someone else's blind spot

perhaps I'm at "the turning point" of the line?

moving beyond a "significant breakthrough" 

at least I'm not exhausted today of the smiles and greetings

the line is extending as I write it

if only I could converse in my writing     or confess     or observe

when I do these things     they seem somehow "untrue"

I don't trust my "process"     and this makes me nervous

                  despite his many negative aspects     I miss the "contributions" of XXXXXXX     

and I wish he were here right now     (he might have the "answer")

poetry is difficult when it's confronted with so many options

when you look at me     what do you see?

I wonder:  if I actually wrote songs     would they eventually become difficult?

I miss being bright and engaged     I need to "run my mouth"

don't come to me with your pathetic desperation

I need to be invigorated by something "fun"     (is this even possible anymore?)

I am     in so many ways     unfit

beauty and ugliness are often the same thing

what are these young people (writers) doing if they're not working on their writing?     (fucking?     trying to fuck?     talking on the phone?)

I often feel trapped     or constricted     by the limitations of the page

big fish / little fish / inconsequential fish -- what is all this fishing?

I am not entirely self-sufficient anymore     I "need"

is language uninteresting     or is it daunting?

am I desperate and pathetic?