The page where my interest was lost,
premier and pretentious,
a great grey gust of gibberish.
Phileas Fogged down in the derails.
Do you remember when we named the dog
Indiana? A wooden chalice chosen holy?
On the red line to work the other day
I saw people whose skin color was not
the same as mine, and that didn't tell me
anything deep about who they were
as people. I did not try and imagine
who they were. I did not smugly appropriate
their experiences. Whether or not they're American
is not important. I hope they had a phenomenal day
in the wondrous weather. Unless they're jerks.
Then, I hoped they all stubbed all of their toes.
Last night in the undulating darkness of the thesaurused night
my unconcsciousness theatred a script of fancy.
I shan't describe it to you.
Orwell says happiness can only exist in acceptance.
I am jubilant that this book is not for me.
My eyes are in the text while
my heart is in the kitchen
on a beach somewhere with a better book.
The exasperating sea of prose
summed up by the coda
where the writer admits having nothing interesting to say
He wins awards for writing about how he doesn't know how to write
beginnings or endings. The middles are choppy, too.
The difference between experience and writing about
experience is more than perspective.
Is more than let me tell you.
Is more than show.
No matter how much I enjoy a turkey
and cheese sandwich, no matter my fascination with
the post-credit adventures in Super Mario Odyssey,
if all I have to say is ass bounce reveals moon
twinkling over top hat
while the crumbs catch in my goatee,
then that is all I should say.
I'm not sure how to start
telling you how much I enjoy
sitting in the solitude of my air
conditioned house collecting purple
snowflakes while the turkey and cheese
sandwich that I am unsure how to describe
sits on the plate whose importance I am having
trouble describing to you reminds me of a dream
I'm not going to tell you about because I lack
the ability makes me wish I was white water
rafting while this book fell behind the shelves
confusing the lonely spider.
An ongoing conversation between writers and the text that they're reading.