contemplating my navel

it's an innie

It's 1 o'clock in the morning and I'm told

"Finish the great American novel tomorrow.

You're gonna get sick if you don't

sleep right".

 

Every moment is a seed, every word a possibility

that seems to flower in my mind only

to wither on the page.

 

I don't like straight lines; the world is a continuous curve.

 

I got deaD ON THE HEAD, LIKE GROCERY SHOPPING-

NOT SOMETHING YOU wanna do but it may be necessary. Sounds alarming

when read back so i leave the screaming caps- no edit

cuz art is the moment.