There is a poem
just beneath this surface
of jumbled thoughts
and nonsensical moments,
banging against the walls,
burning the roof,
huffing and puffing
and threatening to blow
my mental house down
(as well as my mind);
but in the end,
the walls, they hold,
and the roof, the roof
is not on fire,
and the poem slowly grows silent
succumbing to the stronger force
of indifferent apathy,
dying along with its
potential beauty.
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the sieve and the sand 
dang poems always so frail and suffering… if they were ever exposed to swine flu you can be sure they’d die as soon as they infected a whole lot of otherwise acceptable writers.
There’s a certain strength to acknowledging your frail and suffering. Being tough ain’t about not being able to be hurt, it’s about being hurt, knowing you’re going to be hurt again and functioning anyway. Which side do you fall on?
sr
Good thing that the swine flu didn’t turn out to be the pandemic that we were all told that it might be, or else poems everywhere might have taken ill.
The mental house falling is an essential part of the human experience. If you’re not good and nuts like me, find some good psychedelics. poems tend to improve after gross trauma.
sr