Friday, February 13, 2009

There's A Time And Place For Daemons

Do I need to write another neurotic poem?
Do I need to type, fevered fast
To exorcise this stuckness?

I heard a story recently,
My dear friend Mr. Waits,
Driving down the freeway
Looked up, up in the air,
To that nothingness where potential resides
And he told his Genius to beat it for a while.

I need to turn off for just a few hours rest.
I'd like the pressure to stop.

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