The Trash Can

this is great,

I just wrote twopoems I didn't like.
there is a trash can on thiscomputer.

I just moved the poemsoverand dropped them intothe trash 're gone forever, nopaper, no sound, nofury, no placentaand thenjust a clean screenawaits 's always betterto reject yourself beforethe editors do.
especially on a rainynight like this withbad music on the now--I know what you'rethinking:
maybe he should havetrashed thismisbegotten , ha, ha,
ha.

The light, perfectly balanced verse captures very well, the fluidity, almostI could say the liberation, that the computer affords the wordsmith -nothing is permanent unless you want it to be, erasing a word, a line, anentire poem is no harder than a click of a button.

Words on paper have a definite inertia to them - the crossed out lines tracktheir way indelibly across the sheet, a visible and increasingly messyrecord of a work's revision history.

Contrast the aesthetic freedom of no paper, no sound, no fury, no placenta and then just a clean screen awaits you.

And the poem itself definitely reflects that freedom, the lines pouringforth with careless abandon until they reach a hilariously antipoeticconclusion that made me laugh out loud.

A fitting ending to the theme,

Ithink.

Ha, ha, ha.

Ha.