(Or Lindsay Ellis)
You are wonderful.
I guess this is my soapbox or platform
To scream out my various crushes
So here goes another volley:
Is it strange to say that, even at age 65,
I have a crush on Hillary Rodham Clinton?
What am I to do now, with only a few words left?
Six words; good enough, I guess.
Shit is this:
March 23, 2013
A second draft of a second draft of a second draft
It never ends, does it?
Revisions upon revisions upon sleepless countless endless revisions
And still no closer than before.
March 24, 2013
Why must Google Docs
fuck up my life?
No words can give justice
to this abomination
When it comes down to it
And as I lean back in my seat
I notice how tired I am
I hope you’re not too tired
Reading this shit
Hopefully life goes on and gets better
But don’t we always wish that?
Don’t we always do and say the same things?
(P.S. I may or may not win a poetry contest. Things are looking on the up and up, honestly.)
Another Monday has passed and now Tuesday is here
Can I sing like Walt Whitman? Will I end up distorted like Eliot?
Will I end up like Yeats with poetry fumes coming out of my ass?
Or will I end up like Ginsberg and go on and describe my cock and balls to you, poetry reader in the starry dynamo of that machine night, poetically speaking?
How about I just write like Bukowski and explore some poetic vagina and clits all around the imaginary world, right?
Right, and I can go on and try to rhyme and try to make some time for this past-time fellatio with words but this doesn’t quite cut the mustard, am I right?
Well, all I can be is Ismael Santos, poet laureate of shitty poets worldwide and multiverse-wide, as well.
That’s all I can be. Nothing more.