Weedeating, and other poetry
Here are the bits of "poetry" (never finished) that happen when I'm laboring/my only "productive" activity, below. By the way, SOLITUDE is what so-called "creativity" is about, how MENDEL in his monastery formulated genetics - monastery/prison/etc. And I'm not PRAISING "solitude." A French writer would make his servant chain him to the writing desk and not unlock it under pain of being fired and losing all miserable livelihood.
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Start at the farthest reaches, the longest row...
The only reward is when this job is over.
Some might escape the slave's collar at birth
but none the Universe's and its inexorable laws -
the gravity, static electricity, magnetism, reflections -
that bind, break, behoove.
Only Death is relentless, Achilles, that's
why men hate him so.
Sweat well or not, we're the ones who wink,
the Universe winks not back.
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Deep thoughts that ring true. 
