Hanging a Lampshade

Dear Reader,

At long last, it's arrived!
the fabric stretched over its wire frame
not opaque, but just so
it will sit upon this tired metaphor and
what's the phrase?
"spruce it up."

I cage myself
you've heard me say it before
#BrokenRecord, @CuttingRoomBore
but those posts are archived deep behind some rusting Cellar Door
and what's a Vine anyway? No one tweets anymore

I'm wading back in 
is this supposed to feel like...
...is it on straight? Am I doing this right?
Did someone cut the mic?
silent for too long
but I won't get back there with rhyme schemes
or abandoned drafts of folk songs

and so I start this one again
for a fourth time
not counting the three I erased
deleted
retraced
there I go again, but I can feel the wind
I'm getting closer, I'm almost in

let's take inventory, while i'm on this aimless rant:
one man, without his shoes, walking in the woods
it's snowing, because it's always snowing
his feet are bruised, his soles slashed to ribbons
and he won't stop walking, but he's not going anywhere.

in the distance, a small shed
where manuscripts are filed in a plain manilla folder labeled "destiny"
and a box with an Ikea lamp
that waits for a lampshade

he wears it on his head
that's a thing people do, right?
i've seen it on the television, it certainly must be true.
he keeps muttering "too obvious, on the nose,
trite, rote,
wasteful, pointless
Unoriginal, inconsistent"

and he never does anything
except talk about what he can't do
and reflect on his regrets
and walk in bloody circles in the snow

No, no no.
it's all wrong, transparent
obvious, on the nose.
I could make him walk to the shed?
but what happens then? what's inside? unfinished ideas, broken promises?
It's all very tiring.

It's probably going to take a few more of these. I'll get back to you.

- EB