gigantor

Anyway, I have been thinking about poetry and how it's sad in a way that a boxer knows when he's past it when he gets his ass knocked out. Unfortunately, when you write things down and send them off, you always hold out hope that the punch is gonna connect.
It's funny how you can be on the canvas with your bloody mouthpiece next to you and your cauliflower ears ringing and not even know it. I guess that's the genius of the human soul and so on.
Perhaps that's why I'm going to be a teacher. I can be their cornerman for a while and they can get out there and maybe be a contender. I might be able to teach them the art of ducking.
I will keep on numbly punching as so many of my friends are doing.

RUN ON



Safe on the stuffed cushions,
Wrapped in ethereal sheets swimming
in lavender,
curled around a loving blanket,
( this comfort is a rebuttal
to the daily un happiness outside
this room)
she s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s
and pushes the
snooze button
*period*