=3 Sonnets=

I am convinced that the greatest drawback about writing is that one has to use words.—Clarice Lispector


1.

…like-minded popcorn. There I was

methodically covering a fish in paint

blinking what would bother the critics.

What oblivion do you

not understand? Benzoyl peroxide.

I didn’t say, “He’s not my father.”

BLURRING Blur +

Instant Ways to Know Without Me?

I swore I wouldn’t do it anymore.

A writer writing for money is no more

or less admirable to me than a sex-worker

who fucks for it. Someone else

lived most of my life. But that’s okay;

it’s still other people who are dad dead.

2.

Calling on his breast and the copper

dagger of Inanna.

The servants who follow

one’s carriage must have at least a few

good points. Call the next witness,

said the king. The sphere of their influence

is confined to their own.

If reminded of the proceedings against him

he flew into a rage. “Oh you

lifeless accursed automaton!”

For three days now a little dribble begins.

An agent that increases the functional

with a mulatto girl. My love for the egg
is a motor stimulant.

3.

More gray weather. Light rain.

Breakfast. Don’t know what I did exactly.

Wrote a poem.

Hungry. Probably ate too much (for lunch).

Things I wish I hadn’t said: how great a movie

I once thought Natural Born Killers was.

How I used to cook a London broil.

Why people are conservatives.

Did laundry.

Washed hair. Sat on porch.

Pulled weeds.

Read more Ron Padgett. Every time our digestion works, we should stop, notice, be thankful.  Nothing

is the past. I’m imagining it all.