AFTER THE BANG
From Chris Wayan's journal, 2001/5/16
I work until the impulse falls apart.|
The foam left on the beach I call my art.
Effort crests until creation's done,
But then? All purpose frays into a blun-
Dered frizz of thorns, a mudmazemarsh,
Brine-drowned in tears I stubbornly won't shed.
Winds of recognition might refresh
The only question left, here at ebb tide, is how you all see this peculiar monument. I've bared myself to the bone, all right. But does it do the job, show readers what dreaming can be? (You could always email and say it's readable! Or send me a dime so I can eat a bean.)
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