Conversations with a stalled poem

Conversations with a stalled poem
by jim benz
If only someone strange would knock on my door. I could be inspired.
It’s August, an august month “marked by majestic dignity or grandeur.” I feel bland.
Three men are walking down the middle of the street, one of them bouncing a basketball. They don’t like my sidewalk? I like my sidewalk. Except in winter.
Regina Spektor’s piano. Mesmerizing.  Is she on the radio?
We need to cut apples, grind apples, press cider. All because of the trees.
I can barely stand up. Not because I don’t want to.
We ate at Green Mill last night. The food was middling, the people were dull. But we had a coupon.
Right now.  I have to go to the bathroom. It’ll only take a second.
If you must know, we don’t watch television.  Except for DVDs.  Which means, if you want to be technical, we watch television.
Batman is in the movie theater again. Everybody has seen him.  I wanted to see him. I probably won’t see him. But I might.
The phrases of the tenth part were spoken only silently to myself. I have uncomplicated issues.
I’m tired of writing.

0 thoughts on “Conversations with a stalled poem

  1. aw. you sound slightly more inspired than i do half the time! thankfully, my p.pan complex told me this musn’t mean i’m growing up. no.3 is my favourite. i’ve meandered the same reading into it too much thoughts. also i like that picture. i like you!

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