Thursday, December 08, 2005


Pieces of Poems
J.B. Rowell

When I tear one up
it’s like
smashing a fist
through window or
of legs and wings off.

Limb from limb
I destroy copy with
unsatisfactory font size,
errant spacing,
an unsightly typo.

There is sickly satisfaction
to obliterate
the fruits
of what I must do,
launch it from a high place
like a roof
watch it splatter below
accidental art
flesh and seed meet pavement.

Placing the rent pieces
on top of the trash:
loaded and ripened diapers
scraps of food
junk mail

I smile.

Like anyone
would pull them out
of this stink if whole
like anyone
would read or take them
as their own.

But still,
I must honor a secret fear
to guard against
identity theft.


Blogger Michael Parker said...

Ha! I love this. Love how you fittingly express the creative frustration and hyper-critical angst of the writer. Great write.

12:41 AM, December 09, 2005  
Blogger J.B. Rowell said...

Now I have a paper shredder - which has taken quite a bit of fun out of it!

7:09 AM, December 09, 2005  

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home