For over five years I have been a self-made man,
and by that I mean I do not exist beyond
the ink blot, the white expanse of documents.

But I’ll pretend. Yes, I’ll buckle down my teeth
for a month. I’ll clean up my disgraces, be palatable
for the audience of unblinking digital strangers. 

I write to stay human, grounded and considerable.
Sieve through my skull’s interior, communicate 
something. Maybe nothing. Make art, automatic.

There is not much passion, just the habit of gutting
myself for the blank screen. Mostly this is ritual. 
The grand plans died, there is no intention to be discovered. 

There’s just that strange ulterior motive: my death
one day renders a vault of verse, untouched, a near holy
encapsulation of a life written out, dissected, preserved.