the purge

what follows now from another writing
alternate wednesdays, various times tween noon and midnight
choices to read, watch, think or write
the occasional nap
the order there is none but only the words are left
and in miserable shape
if ever we doubted us as "writer" then no more
at least one question answered in certainty
All the others knew, for a long time they knew, so did i but for my own dishonest narcissist
over and again, selfish narcissism in search of anything other than real

i didn't do anything with it til wedesdays ended, and whether i might do anything else your guess i good as mine... maybe run a spellcheck, not sure the reason. To run a spellcheck presumes a level we've never occupied

follows is all i had in me alternating wednesdays, too the times i had nothing
it's log, it's messy, it's poorly written. it's here because ... where else? it's not the quality of rot discarded by real poets, writers
it's all we've got
we started without you, it seems we're still alone
i go to work, no body's there.
Everyday goes by the same.
But digression never built a granite foundation
Another day perhaps
bones for the dogs