I know it's not as hot as it's been but it seems to be getting hotter every day. Busy as always, there's been a pleasant surprise pretty much every day these days. Making it tough to keep in the "bad mood" I put into the poems I'm working on. I'm only going to write about 20 of these (if I can) and then work on another project, either Dr. Strange (I've mentioned this to some of you) or a project I have been tentatively been calling "Me Reading A Book." Mysterious, no? Ultimately the two (or three) projects I hope to put together into a manuscript, while fixing/shopping around my napowrimo-inspired manuscript, VS.
Here's my poem:
THE SHAH
Slept in the audio shed, glass housing the shark-bait-
new video game, a good dream, no talking,
shoot towards the sound of the shape,
commence entrance of cartridge, spaceship
program inside the bloodstream, being turned off,
body turning over-a clear pandering maneuver-
don't ask our makers for approval once too often,
don't burst out those salty trucker tears.
Now hacksaw, now muscular trucker's arm,
the navy is built on bulk wrestlers with
irregular tans. On the night in question
we were arrested in another county for
something less spooky. I'm in love with
the concept of the convertible, how
should I go about marketing it?
The face is a sponge for entropy
and the entropy goes right in here:
correctives given have done their job,
now we can move him, put the tools
back in the trunk and scatter.
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