May now.

may now, almost june and creativity 

doesn’t come easy anymore.

pens pressed on pages and for what? 

line fragments and scattered coherence?

“I’m trying,” I tell them, “but I’m 

too old now for these make-believe words 

and the real ones won’t do.”

but Jesus, i’m not Salinger or even trying to be.

i’m in a rush, really i am, and everything is

done stupidly quick: by midnight i’m 

exhausted and crash so deeply it almost 

feels like drowning,

but it’s better than nothing and there’s less 

thinking this way which i’ve been told is

good for me and i might believe it.

there are many things worse than waking feeling drowned,

like sliced tomatoes on sandwiches or taxes.

at least the Sun rises early (and how).