This is what I sound like when uninspired
What are we to do? Con/Jur/d, 4/10/2023 Confronted by a midden pile in the cemetery, Spring wrapped around our throat and heart, squeezing who was the old man lifting weights in the gym, he followed my every motion as the trainer said, “Slower, slower Still” plastic angels, faded plastic roses, fallen branches burdened by lichen, while all around abound, daffodils and the blue ones I can’t seem to remember at the moment with all of this rich substrate these improbable moments what are we to do, lie down rise up, or just be open and grateful, a bud struggling to burst against this weighty divine pressure, right there without any distance a robin sings.
Procrastination 4/10/2023, Con/Jur/d “Not a fan of this, heart racing that’s not it, more of a flutter” again, poem as a conversation “Aren’t you bored yet,” he says at 11:11, it means nothing but delays the inevitable satisfactorily “If today was your last day how would you live?” Resent the question although the answers stirred something at depth, something geological, when we were tectonic plates shifting for a better grip “How’s the poetry going?” out of nowhere, as if I’m going to answer a disembodied voice O yes, we do it all the time, but this time, as if we have a dead - line, nothing comes, ignore the clamor, sit in the quiet without human intervention the earth shakes, something is written, someday, even this will stop.
Bound to change things