Poetry Scrap

Doting, shameless, Whitmanesque, fuck-all, happy

Sure I was pre-natal in my condition, but then again Lawrence’s sentiments towards convalescence.

My crime against time was not to be in this condition but to refuse to leave it. Constipated with my own self.

The world fresh and new, night into day, a startling blue, and they wonder why I find the same old jokes funny again and again.

Noon, Santa Ana smells of winds rubbing against hills – that’s the friction that makes the heat – and an F-18 overhead.

Meditating. No thoughts but just being. The phuss and rush of all that bandwidth moving north and south, nine lanes worth, I-5.

At night my wine, chopping garlic, sautéing carrots, mushrooms, books, pecking away at poems, smoke, silence.

- M. Oropeza

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