It’s sunset.
I’m too cold.
Xena is on.
The next poem won’t be as good as the last one.
My boss won’t let me.
I’m not inspired.
I don’t know how to start today.
It’s time to eat.
I need to relax.
There will be more time to write tomorrow.
I can’t think of anything to write about.
My spirit-guides have left me for an extraordinarily enlightened duck in Minnesota.
Poetry is bourgeois.
Poetry is the opium of the elite.
Poetry is not the color of opposition which will transmogrify the simple illusions which keep the Man in his place.
I’m tired.
I don’t have a pen.
I want to sing.
Grace eludes me.
The moon has not risen.
I can not Howl.
I can not bow to possibility and performance and need and wonder and the letting of it all in.
My nose itches.
No one will care about this poem in one hundred and thirty-seven years.
I am not worthy.
I am too content.
I have too many things.
I can’t compete with Shakespeare and so why bother?
The sky is falling.
There is no chocolate in the house.
My wisdom font is broken.
My soul is too arid.
I don’t know enough words.
The trees refuse to speak to me since I failed to recycle that one piece of white 8 ½ by 11 bond that I promised to.
All communication is predicated on the assumption that the meaning of words is in some sense shared by the people who read them, and I can not validate that assumption to my satisfaction.
My wife needs me to talk to her.
A deep, inner silence pervades my soul.