Writing - The Poetry Project

16 FEB/MAR 10 #222
POEM
from the wrong book
Once I wrote all the books
it wasn’t too weird to read them.
The wrong _ _ _ _, for all time, has been opened.
On time, sure, but of many
bedtimes I’m of one mind.
The Scoobyat of Bruno S.
stands for against us. Still
sullenly, but sunrising. What
part of water into wine don’t
you stand under. Or I guess if
_ _ _ can’t walk on it, just part it.
Modern angel power is my sea of gold
oh: also my pot of tea. The bee’s tea,
too. And the knee’s pajama out from
under Gogol knows. What.
Cats have nothing to do with it.
We all came out from under some W
but what about Gogol’s double O
overcoat. Out from all the world’s only
caterpillar came the world’s first what.
I can’t go in there all the time. But
Nietzsche did. He went in there all the time.
Another time it was a record of the time.
After Nietzsche came Walser, but only
Walter Benjamin came back. Don’t you
think someone American danced on top of
his slow passage over the low mountains.
I can go around any more
or any more than this. And
I can no more go to movies
than all around in circles. But
I can anyway in that I bet
I can. Harvesting the muse that
I can. Whatever she can’t do,
I can too. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm,
‘cause when you say so
I can suddenly feel all fallen.
Better _ _ _ _ _ _ the books but
I can either burn them.
Fine, cat. I thought it would be funny if I named my cat Nat. What’s
better than that, another better thought thought. Then another
better thought thought better. It thought, it would be funny if Nat
did. If you did it would just be, Damnation, hello to that cat. A total
cat. What a cat, a cat. How a cat can help it, I can’t consider, how it
can help that. Won’t you take a cat like that. Now belong to my cat. T
nathaniel otting