Written for some poetry award last December, this clunker is what you get when you think too much while writing poetry on black coffee:

now, here i do what i am supposed
to do, i sit down and place a pillow
underneath my behind, while
thoughts billow in my mind

in front of me there is a mouth
moving in a face that makes a sound,
om, a distant frequency

back in the hotel there is a remote
i cycle through the channels
indulge in anthropomorphic chatter
when i come full circle, i close my eyes.

Static. The tv’s white noise
spoils over to the mind

i am this place, invaded by a boy who is yelled at
who squanders his life when he doesn’t excel
by a meanderer, who is chasing recluse freedoms
farther than he will remember
by a first-time father, who presses an infant
against his chest. Yes.

i am this instant, my breathing purrs,
the visitors are hosted in white
standard rooms, but they tear down
the walls. They desire love

in my mind, unadulterated love
but i take the remote and shut the TV up

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