I want my hat. Where did I put my hat?
It’s cold in here. The digital thermostat
Says 54. My mind, my mind is shot,
A slug crawling from thought to thought to thought.
Red wine must be the Devil. I can drink
A lot of brandy and not feel this way.
They say it’s in the skins. I’m on the brink
Of jumping on the wagon. I’ll join AA
To lose this dead weight feeling. The coiled spring
That used to be my brain has given out.
My limbs move through molasses and I doubt
Even God could gather me under his wing.
I wouldn’t recognize him if he did.
I’m suffering, I deserve it, quo pro quid.
That's my sonnet for Poetry Thursday, though I claim no direct relation to the speaker.
What is beta? It's like the emperor's new clothes. Everybody goes around saying they're doing it beta, but how many people know what that means?
I've entered four poetry ms. contests this fall and didn't win the first two. When you're pitted against 500 other poets or more that's not surprising. This week I'm entering a fifth contest, the Stevens.
I have a good idea for a new ms.: "Craig, instead of trying to organize your books on some principle, why not just pick out your most outlandish poems?" Why not? Come out blazing. Dare to be different. Die your hair pink.