Really, I should draw, paint and read more, write less. It’s a constant struggle to pipe down. 

Poetry, for one thing, triggers me. Intending to read a bait of versifying, before I know it I’m a keyboard Roman candle ejaculating dubious sparkle. Spurious expatiation is my calling card, if not what I was minted for. Meanwhile, the unconsumed verses lie belly up like stranded beetles flailing to be righted. (I’m testing the simile aloud, wondering if it should see service.)

Blessedly, most of my spew goes unmissed and unmourned to a delete-marked grave. What survives the cull undergoes savage trimming. Self-reference goes packing — a ragout of moi has a pitiable shelf life. If I can’t see past the white of my eyes, where are we?  Indeed, you’re entitled to marvel why this selfsame sad-sack sally isn’t slumbering on Boot Hill. (Does this need an exclamation point?)

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