Wednesday, November 3, 2010

life's work

Pages of notes overflow my desk
their writing erratic and tending toward 
overcrowding, as if the prospect of fresh, 
blank pages to come remains an 
unsubstantiated rumor.

Generations of used glasses have 
arranged themselves into sometimes
random, sometimes significant-seeming 
configurations, staining the wood with 
condensation as they melt, abandoned.

A guitar takes up a bereft air from its 
position in the corner, its top e-string
spiraling crazily away from the neck,
broken after repeated irritable retunings.

I am slowly (thoroughly, painstakingly)
compiling a list of things
that don't work.


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