Sometimes I Get So Tired

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Sometimes I Get So Tired

of poets and all
their goddamned doubts,
the constant

questions about death
and sums—how?
when? will living add up?

Sometimes, I want to say,
Go to hell, then,
and do your fretting

there. Fill a lake
of fire with
affected “this-is-

my-prize-winning-
book” speech.
Read—read
dammit! in pregnant

pauses like a bad
preacher practicing home-
made flash cards

of prepositional phrases.
Adjust your glasses,
tell a funny

story, sip water—
if you can
find any—slip into

something comfortable,
like French
phrases and allusions

to Baudelaire, kick
off your shoes
and stay a while, cause

we got plenty of time
to enjoy this
wearisome infinity

of delight.

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