Close the window, shut off the clicking fan,

raise the screen, get ready to fall in,

the jolt of a whining quest and I nosedive,

I cough in the sand, I hack the dust,

but I’m an artist, undaunted I’ll use it as fuel,

explore the process, write a poem on poetry,

I’m not really a poet, I hope and swear to god,

asserting and responding, the words won’t stop,

is this the endgame?

I try to write novels, satirically grim and violent,

but my prose wanders, swells indulged angst,

my characters are toothless, my themes are trite,

loneliness or joy, all black and primary colors,

so I write poetry, at night when I’m crusty with focus,

I look back over what I’ve done, I don’t hate it.

It helps to have a restless girlfriend,

she bursts with annoying inspiration.