Always working

It smells like shower. Like someone has taken a clean shower and stepped out from the curtain. it never smells clean here. It smells like buffalo wings. Hot. And bullshit. Steaming. I just reared my head like a wild pony and I didn’t mean to. I was only trying to get comfortable. I was only picking under my nails. picking the white skin under my nails to try and feel clean. And that makes me feel strange for even noticing what’s under my nails. There’s nothing now, but the feeling something was.
What’s the point of this. Of all of this of motoring my brain over and over to write things I don’t even know are there yet. I’ve been trying to get a draft of my poems done. I need to get them done before the month is over and I’m almost there. I’m 3/4 of the way there, but I can’t let them go. I keep changing and morphing and changing back and rereading and at some point I just have to let them go and then get them back and change again.
My life’s work that I’ll always be working on. But my life is lived in shadows – only in me. Not in this clean-smelling false will change soon to hot wings or paint or long john silver’s place.
I was in my new garden and I could think among the weeds.

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