A Writing Method

What began with all the grandest of intentions--
a chirruping in my ears like some yard bird
toasting itself with gobbets in the bird bath
and fattened by the hand-delivered seed--
has fallen flat like a cut-out backdrop.

A few delusions:
"The poem must inspire! A selfless act!
Combine all praise and prophecy in one
so that the nation will awake and tremble,
put on sackcloth and ash."
My glory guaranteed,
I pretend I'm nearly done
then skirt away.

The browser windows are my sweet release,
grinning bear traps warm with rust and blood
and the taste of iron in the air.
I scan the forums, binge the shows
ad-blocking the back door it lurks behind.
The days draw to a close
like the shutting of my window blinds.

At last, I get drunk. A fight
breaks out across the bar-- material!
Observe the weak ham fists,
the shirt upturned, exposed beer gut,
no handgun or switchblade to cut it short
they stumble out fifteen minutes till close.
In the last hours of the night I cry to God for pardon.
"Eli, eli, lema sabacthani?!?!"
The night expires, sad, sedate, wasted.

The morning of my hangover, I remember how to breathe
and take a peek beyond the due date.
It turns out time continues there
in those green fields unfenced
despite all omens indicating otherwise.
I'll pick a smaller subject,
stick to form, bang out a draft or two,
it's nothing special but for now will do.