wordsworth’s revisitant

pruning and gnawing at the gyrus of my numbed mind
a shadow enters the room, and it sits behind
it grinds a mudded heel into sheer night’s tail
filling my head with a gluey fairy-tale

it takes away the caulking gun from my ear
claps on my shoulder, asks with barefaced jeer
“are you dreaming of being a writer, you silly boy?
headache, restless nights, burnout enjoy!”

© All rights reserved 2017

Bottom sediment

Sometimes he loses the flow
and feels like an empty caul.
Sometimes his favorite show
is a tapestry on the wall.

His voice is an ant in resin
Dumbness. An unfertilized plot
becomes incoherent and thin
on the bottom of the dry ink pot.

© All rights reserved 2015