I don't know what it is. I'm thinking that
the conceits of the poems aren't strong enough.
The metaphors are weak, I lose the focus
of a sharpened song in this madness.
The TV distracts me; coherent verse
is something I am fussing to resolve
and reconstitute. Modernity
wallows in this senseless, existential
chaos. I can't even think about
the nonsense that I used to write, or not
quite write at all. This awful, whirling game
convinced me that I was original
or had me fighting for a novel way
to represent something that isn't novel.
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