What. Not.

I've been feeling guilty about being so distracted by the election "and whatnot" that I haven't been writing much. So I forced myself to come up with a poem today while running.

Carolina, My Ass

Something in the way
It sounds makes you think
You've heard it before. But you're lulled.
The voice, rich and reedy at once,
Diction a mix of precision and drawl,
And that fingering, sliding
As if the strings have been lubricated.
But they still ring out plucked steel;
There's nothing sloppy about it.
An intake of breath and he constructs
A country in his chest, pouring it drop by drop
Into your ear. Ain't I weak, he sings.
That's when it falls apart. Now you hear
The junkie whine behind the words,
And the only hardness is that of a heart
That takes what it wants and turns away,
Then turns back to ask for more.

I should make myself do it every day, like the rock and roll poet, who filled out almost a whole month last month. Check out the one for David Foster Wallace--it's stunning, I think, and could apply to almost anyone, like the one above could, except it's shorter, which is always better.