Bludgeoning Myself with Metaphor

Each night like those before pushed up against another, as books line shelves -- or maybe they are more like lines, or fragments of lines, forming an as yet undiscerned poem on a finite page; or a piece of mere prose, or a bit of nonsense verse. Narrative or not, each night's uttered words imprint themselves, characters set in a hand fine, or shaky, or sloppy with drink; rushed, or deliberate, or contemplative. The raw nights scroll out unburnished, and I save but bits and pieces to paste together as these awkward vignettes, tattered stubs of time, evidence that I was there. Others say it better.

( Verse )