Video Meliora, proboque; Deteriora sequor

Untitled Poem Titled 'Untitled'

I'm full of unrequited poetic impulses
Little Dorrits of affectations and
unresolved problem segments
hiding discombulations
‘cuz she’s in Spain and here the rain
falls and falls like Niagra Falls
on automatic timer
and the septic tank fails
(I call it the skeptic tank since I’m skeptical of its quality)
and the sump pump sings a tuneless song
as the piano stands silent.

Like birds to a rookery
I fly to the bookery
where drunk I upon the ink
of a flyleaf signature from 1883
fresh as if writ Thursday
while the signer's bones smoulder
and nothing gives a sense of urgency
like bones that smoulder.

The late letters of Bukowski
prove strangely readable
but I resist for lack of imprimatur--
funny how as impressionable youths we fling
influences at ourselves with insouciance
while guarding ourselves in stolid middle age.