Kick in the Head

I am the Dean Martin of writing.
I realized this yesterday afternoon
Washing dishes at work while
Discussing the virtues of
Subtle denouements, the best nom de plume,
And how zeugmas demean a serious style
To my disinterested friends.

But I go home to write each night
And my three drafts are dusty
And my poetry is like autumn leaves, crinkled and rusty.
I’m alone in a sea of words I sometimes fear
I’ll never see or even hear.

I drink and I drink
Till I’m so sober that I start to sink
Beneath the arch of my living room foyer.
I don’t think I could write any worse or slower
Than if I slurred my words like a sot-weed sower.
But Frankie wants another performance tomorrow
So I puff up my pride to swallow my sorrow.

 

 

NaNoWriMo Word Count: 1933. I’m getting there. That’s one full chapter, by the way. We’ll see how far I am after the weekend.