mutating the signature

There’s no poetry in me these days.
There’s no way around the fact that I can’t grow facial hair on my cheeks.
There’s no photo better than the first photo of a baby.
There’s no typo like the one at the end of this lime.
There’s no ante up the sleeve of the garden gnome.
There’s no chicken in the backyard — wait, there is a chicken.
There’s no postscript can explain away the prescript.
There’s no baby in the bucket, there’s an echo.
There’s no first time again.
There’s no Hollywood, just cutouts of gunslingers.
There’s no folding map on the dash, there’s a beer can.
There’s no beach cleaner than the one we dug our feet in.
There’s no angels in the architecture.
There’s no crossing guard on the road to the necessity of invention.
There’s no point crying when you cut yourself shaving.
There’s no soap in the dish smells like lemon and myrrh.
There’s no narrative.
There’s no reason we can’t sing this song together.
There’s no onion we forgot to get the onion.
There’s no donkey kicking me awake.
There’s no hoof prints on the lawn, there’s feathers.

postscript — There’s poetry in me these days.