How the paper crumbles

Tiny tufts of binder paper speckle the ground like bread

crumbs leading to the bulging trash bin.

A blotched tattoo on the outside of the right pinkie,

signal lines filled in and out, a writers stamp.

That far away look is not a place others may go.

Declawed and domesticated, the body observes

and stalks the other.

Taking it all in scraps left over much too much,

nauseated, not needing much more

than nibbles found inside spiral ring cages, 

scratches to self, all

half-fulfilled by my stunted scepter.

Thinking there was more than enough time

to put the ending first, to do the editing in trim tufts,

to say this is my home, this is lace, this belongs

and this is sewn to hold more

meaning, 

to say here is a poem

and poof, it is flown away.


Image By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Readproof

This it is how it is done

                                                  -delicately.

Most important, remember to breathe

steady

quiet hands, 

               as in decent golfers and honest horsemen

then confidence is key-

                                             the only one that fits, actually.

First, you must penetrate the first layer without severing any of the connecting 

threads,

                    or start over.

Next, to get deeper you must first see trust,

                                                            like fat.

You don't need a lot to proceed.

Moving along, use your tools wisely,

logic is too dull.

The point must be sharp enough to travel through the body.

Make no bones about it, be deliberate, don't deliberate.

The marrow may quiver ever so slightly,

this is good-you have come this far.

                                                            You don't need me 

for Directions nor

Corrections

                         the beat of your heart

                         the heat of your pulse

                         the meat of the matter

                         the flood of blood

on the ashen page

in the first draft stage. 

Painting by George Goodwin Kilburne (1839-1924), Penning a Letter, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pro Crastinator

When it finally all came out
and was nowhere near right,
I tried again.

And it was worse.
So I started over
with countless scratches and
don't sniff around-
it stinks!

Well, all I could do
was begin anew
way of coming at it-

Quit is not a possibility,
cruelly
Failure is my reality
and I see,
this jutting angle
enmeshed in the rest
will work,
once I throw it out
the window.
There's always tomorrow.



Image of painting By Anton Laupheimer (1848–1927) (Auktionshaus Zeller) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.