Friday, April 3, 2009


Day Three of NaPoWrMo:
Does writing in your head count?
The problem with time is that
I've no time for poetry,
but poetry has found me
wanting, a wanton for time.

Driving up Highway 101 at 7 AM
my mind  rambled in its own inner tangle
as I raced up the road on a roan mare
(really a Honda Civic), the wheels
droning a chant of distance and 
a longing for the farthest shore
but a profound lack of sleep
left me between worlds
between fast lanes and long lines
a RSS ticker tape of words
whirring through my head
all poetry in the moment
but I was an armchair tourist 
lost in the calligraphy of distraction
of time and distance and road
but there was no film in the camera.
A four car pile-up in the outskirts of  Santa Rosa 
had me memorizing billboards and signs.
From beneath the trick rig, I saw a junkyard, 
a row of tractors, rusted and yellow
a slag heap. sprouting green renewal.
Within city limits, a dun horse grazed
by the cyclone fence, her breath,
small mist rising from the wet grass.
In the corner by the shipping containers,
an aged white pony, lost in thought,
shifted weight from one hip to the other,
was he writing poems in his head too?

the problem with...

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