Ten-minute poems. (That is ten minutes spent writing all of them together, not each of them.)
keen
outer space cradles no entity
except itself. it is but somethings
and nothings.
just like life.
---
habitual
the fair was in town the same day
the unknown that shattered me, when
metaphoric fire burned down my heart and
tangible fire burned down that doghouse
that my neighbour’s five-year-old daughter
had built with her own hands before she
was sorrowfully diagnosed with life-threatening
a.d.d.
---
my navel
i see it. it sees me, but not really
because after all it’s just a
navel.
---
re-
what i do again is what i do
but altered. (if this were a
more profound poem, it would
assert that what we do is oft not
altered at all, but unaffected; however,
by definition, this is not a more
profound poem than itself.)
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
