This too shall pass (I hope)

The Lindy Hop

Dance, you mad whirling bastards!  Kick up your heels thusly!

Dancing is just one of those things

I cannot do (sober) unless it is a full moon.  Lycanthropy and coordination are

remarkably similar conditions...  So why do I sometimes

think that

I should

dance

with

you?

New thought:

Where were you when Michael Flatly became intolerable to watch?  I don't remember, myself,

not when there are other things to never forget remembering.  Never remember.

Yell up the stairs saying hello for the first time or the

most recent time (time being what it was, it will be impossible to have been recalling)

did they actually know just what is/couldbe/wouldbe/won'tbe/am?

Thump.  Thump.

The dancers jump.

Twist. Twist.

Methinks they're pissed.

Flop, flap.

The people applaud.

In Which I am not a Poet

This does not make me a poet

There might be some temptation you see to say that now, now that I haven't written anything that

isn't poetry

isn't essay

isn't anything like a lie

for a while that I have stopped being author to become a poet.

I never thought much of the machinations of the universe (university)

not when it came to what it did to me (not free, that's the solution for—getting head of myself).

There are only a few times a month when I am write.

Savor this one.  Cleverness offset by a writing mistake.

Yin and yang.

I stole that from a conversation we had once.  Originality is a grand thing.

This is stolen too:

Do you want to become a lonely grumpy smartass?

That's implying I'm not already.

I made this poetic by saying it was poetic.  Don't you agree?

Line breaks wear down returns.  There is an ancient mariner, and he refuses to pay his fee.

Fi.

Fo.

Fum.

We done here?

Yeah, we're done.