i feel like there used to be a formula for this.
i read back over my proudest moments
and they all taste like someone else's memories.

what's worse:
all semblance of resonance
has since been replaced with a hazard sign:
all sharp edges and,
"don't dig any deeper.
you're not gonna find anything."

i seem to recall having to remind people of that.
the death of the compulsion
is less indicative of terraforming
than an erosion of cleverness.

i'm not even out of aphorisms,
but to call this the dissolution of talent
would be a conceit.
deigning to leave it untitled
would be equal measures apropos
and counter-productive.

i'm told impact can't be measured by word count,
but it's what i've got.

09/28/2012

Author's Note: I recall someone saying that a poem is never done. At this point, it's either ignore that, or change the damn title.

Posted on 09/28/2012
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