Out Of Steam.

I'm a little slow today. I spent the whole day steam-cleaning the house. A monstrous task with coiled black wires and heated water and caustic soap. Rivers of sweat ensued.

I'm not even done yet.

My brother sprained his ankle playing basketball today. My father took him to the doctor's to make sure he was all right. He was all right. Except for the sprained ankle.

I took breaks to eat and to tutor a 10 year-old. His father wants him to study for the SAT's. I oblige because his father pays me. The things we do for money.

C.B. made me do this with something like telekenesis which is sometimes known as inspiration.

I wrote a poem for C.B. yesterday. Here it is:

Ode to C.B.

You play tennis without the net
But I still love you for it.
Whitmanesque, freezing Frost’s critique,
Caring not a whit that you contradict.

Composed in your composition it seems,
But fire bursts forth from the words, hidden
In the few lines is not the slaking of thirst
From a full pail, but the napalm-hunger

Of a composition course. You bind them
To their release in early morning hours:
Yawning, hideous, misshapen buildings.
They must climb their own hills in the hall.

Most of them do not see it, do they?
The leaves of grass whisper their barbaric
Yawps unheard and unseen, and they do not
Care a whack about being on the road.

However you guide them to their final
Destination. You show them all their words
Until they see them; you show them all your
Worlds until.

They are free. You are reborn as a fee
Nix, ashes on palimpsest, composing,
In a few lines, a Miltonic epic
Wherein I can play tennis without a net.