Sunday

on this sunday interlude
i try coming back to poetry
force back my way into it rather.
pour my recent restlessness on paper.
- not to mention the sophistication
i have bought myself into,
and the bounded rationality -
and watch it shape itself
into something that seems exquisite.
i am at a barber while trying to verse
and i am clueless. classically.
as my beard goes, so does my poem.
i have a smart, smart phone.
and lots of friends on the other side of it
trying to fill in for the gaps in the aforementioned rationality.
but what about my poetry?