I See Colors Like You Hear Jet

But The Grind Has Begun. The Windows Don’t Open, And Even The Availability Of Near-constant Jokes About Jews And Mormons Fails To Stem The Tide Of Frustration, Decay. We’ve Reached The End Of Pure Inspiration, And Are Now Somewhere Else, Something Implying Routine, Or Doing Something Because People Expect Us To Do It, Going Somewhere Each Day Because We Went There The Day Before, Saying Things Because We Have Said Them Before, And This Seems Like The Work Of A Different Sort Of Animal, Contrary To Our Plan, And This Is Very Very Bad.

Through The Small Tall Bathroom Window The December Yard Is Gray And Scratchy, The Tree Calligraphic.

I Often Cannot Believe The Things I Do.

The Air Is Like Being Wanted, We Say, And They Nod Approvingly. The Air Is Like Getting Older, They Say, And They Touch Our Arms Gently.

Having Lost People When They Were Young, You Feel Intimately Acquainted With Mortality, I Guess. Though I Procrastinate Worse Than Anybody.