Re-write

Mornings are important to the young poem. It struggles        
after an extended adolescence. The format has to          
be cleaned so it hardly has time to think of you. It needs strength,        
bagels and caffeine for the messy tangle of words strewn about      
like cheese doodles locked in battle position on the parlor floor.                
             
It will unearth closets full of past, journaled experience             
written on napkins and cigarette packs. It will want to stop              
because its allergies are flaring. The flotsam and jetsam of the              
trash is getting in the way of the verse. It becomes impatient              
with the muse and contemplates whiskey and a smoke for lunch.              
             
It desecrates cardboard tombs, discovers pieced travel              
receipts suffocated between pages of cheap magazines, shallow              
meanings leading the reader in rebellious circles of angst.              
it remembers...; looks around sheepishly. Wonders if anyone              
saw. It will be embarrassed. Angry. Migraine swelling.              
             
It downs two Goody Powders with Jose Cuervo before slamming              
incoherent syntax against the wall. Strangles bad metaphor              
by the neck and slits one repetitious throat at a time. Raids the cellar;              
drags juvenile cliché by bleached roots to the dumpster              
before fixing dinner and banging the next generation of verse.              
             
~