MICHAUX AND ME

In my shell, everything is empty

There is no form everything is in shade.

I’m not a Joyce, Beckett or Michaux

I can’t form another language.  I know

I suck the life out of lingo but what

Else am I to do, give up?

I’m compelled to write what

I feel, even if it kills me.  I’m

Like Michaux’s white egret that

Has essential organ’s missing.

I struggle, I have the feeling that

Nothing will come of this time. 

I am condemned to live in these

Properties and I’ve got to make some-

Thing of them even if they make

Nothing of me.