Poetry: Failed Inspiration
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Failed Inspiration

by D. Deeley

I want to write a poem.
I don't have any ideas worth sharing.
I do have 35 cents a canned crack in aluminum makes me forget.
I'll have to present Ginsberg.
Ginsberg always has something to say.

I sit in my room,
in 35 cent cost of memory,
in (don't ASK what's inside) pseudo-drug culture,
in gen X images,
rehearsing Ginsberg,
and there's a bug.

He's small.
And dirty.
And I'll bet that if I could smell him he'd stink like the mammoth piles of garbage TV says he lives in.
And I could kill him.
One shot.
But I don't.

He's small.
And hurt.
And trying to continue on against all costs and feet to move to the next day avoiding the right Gestapo's
and the Liberals'
Burn the Flag to save YOUR COUNTRY
just so that he can think with or without meaning.
So they kill him.

I look back on Ginsberg.
His poems are everywhere.
I find I've written a poem
When I just wanted to present America.

Email: Nick Fenris
last reviseed 11/21/97
The Tunnel