I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit,

just where, and when I had to, for deadlines.

O I could learn to type standing,

but isn’t it slim to be slumped off from that,

problems undignified, fiery dig salt mines?—

Content on one’s black flat:

soming no deadline—is all ancient nonsense—

no typewriters—ha! ha!—no typewriters—

alas!

For I have much to open, I know immense

troubles & wonders to their secret curse.

Yet when erect on my ass,

pissed off, I sat two-square, I kept shut my mouth

and stilled my nimble fingers across keys.

That is I stood up.

Now since down I lay, void of love & ruth,

I’d howl my knowings, only there’s the earth

overhead. Plop!