little sleazers

writing poems on the back of deposit slips
and inventory sheets - now gone, somewhere,
between here and there are many moments now
gone, slipping and sliding back and forward,
trying to slip up and trip up and remind and
recall what was good about the moment - the
life of a poet pre-girl-friend. just the blank
page and the bottle night after night, writing
words that i think will mean something the next
morning but they never really do. i try to fathom
and imagine what it's like to be a 'real' writer
and whether or not it's right i like to think i
am one and then i look at the body of my work and
i know it is not true - this stream of consciousness
bullshit doesn't add up, doesn't seem to make the
pain go away. it's not the answer and yet i still
pen the words (or type them now) listening to sounds
from the other room.

zoomed view of timescape proportions. i wish i had
a timeviewer, but then again, that wouldn't be any
fun.

would it?