Twenty First Week of Poetry

March 20

Nostalgia Chick

(Or Lindsay Ellis)

You are wonderful.

 

March 21

 

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?

No joke.

 

March 22

What am I to do now, with only a few words left?

Six words; good enough, I guess.

Shit is this:

Poetry.

 

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

I guess

 

March 25

 

Almost forgot

About poetry

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.)

 

March 26

 

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.

Nothing less.

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