The Novel

Today may be the day to give myself permission
to walk away
forever and ever
from The Novel

Not sure I can live there,
though the Muses hand out enough fodder
for a thousand word canons

It's just when I sit
and sit
and sit
and The Novel stretches on like a marathon where
each runner dies-
I find the compilation of words and images and figures more vulnerable
than baring my soul in poetry

How can a book, full of fiction, require more skin from my teeth and hair off my back
than this?

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