Thursday, November 3, 2011



Unfortunately the idea of writing a "sort of" poem
conveys the idea of being half-assed.
In other words, not really investing in the process
of either/or. Ambiguity comes to mind.
And here I am, sort of skimming the surface,
where I can be as ambiguous as I want
no decisions need to be made
just keep the cursor moving
having forsaken pen and paper for the phosphor screen.
But I am already fragmented enough
in this century of mosaic tumult.
No time for chums, our dreams are inhabited
by night crawlers, not crickets.
No sultry evenings on the verandah
as penned by F. Scott Fitzgerald
or perhaps William Faulkner.
No sitting by the pool with Hemingway's 6-toed cats
or The Idea of Order at Key West.
What was that poem about anyway?
It's Sunday morning, everywhere, all at once.
Maybe the chickens crossing the road
had something to do with it.
What the mind wants. The forensics of detail.
The quay at the end of the mind
is an indelible blue ocean
whispering in the nascent spiral of your ear.
Sort of.


Robert Lee Brewer: take the phrase “Sort of (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles could be: “Sort of cool,” “Sort of strange,” “Sort of not into getting out of bed in the morning,” or whatever! It should be sort of fun to read all the poems today!

Molly Fisk: chum, night crawlers, and crickets

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