The Pig Ignorant Word

They say anyone who wants to write should write everyday, but I don’t know if it’s true of blog writing.  I do write, and I do write everyday.  Unfortunately, on most of those days what I write is poetry.  That’s the thing about the whole stay at home dadding – time is limited and poetry is limited writing.  Poems are meant to be fast, to the point – in and out with the business… strip down, come quick and get it all over.  That’s great when time is small.  My time is infinitesimal.  That’s the reality.  Time is infinitesimal, and not infinitely seminal.  I am on my fourth glass of scotch and bed calls.  You see how little time there is in one night?  Not enough to get anything done.  I sure do like the idea of writing a second novel, and I’m about 60 pages into it, but the hours for that work do not pile up like I’d want.  I have nothing.  Why did I decide to have my son circumcised when I am not Jewish?  Because that is what sons do to us – cut us off, all around.  A ring of skin for the ring around my finger, for the collar around the neck, for the skinny waisted wasp in want of a hula hoop, for whiskey when words will not do.

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