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And then my poetry became one thing.
I was eaten by homogeneity
that expelled my fire with a burp.
Trapped within my own landscape,
I spin in circles on a trite soil.
Oh the mocking of worms!

I try to make way for something new.
I twist, I push in exaggerated labor
but cannot move aside from me.
Behind me,
is only more me
and more me.

Apparently Neruda is not hiding beneath my hem.

I will stand ground.
I will glare at this florid pen
and with false bravado, demand:
“write something of silk roads,
of Legos or turtle games -
a thought, untouched, untested!"

And as though you are not looking
(or as if I did not care)
I’ll reluctantly let slip my hands
to drop that echoing drive,
for one last line that rings perfect,
that hangs heavy with profundity.

I will close my eyes,
dare to throw out any shaped thing
and name it art.
Half-priced pizza at Moe’s.


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