Writing poetry is hard. Writing about other people writing poetry is even harder. But such is the task I've been assigned with, and accepted. And which I undertook in earnest this morning around 8a.m., seeming to have few other choices when the plumbers got the jackhammer out. I find there's really only one way to counterbalance the sound of a jackhammer while trying to concentrate on a rather sweeping project: listening to a two year old drummer.
My plan worked. After a few hours of this I find I could write inside a dynamite testing factory. I may not ever be able to crank out anything resembling a coherent sentence again, but when did I ever?
Is that the kid from The Barcoloungers?
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