When I flip and skip a word or jumble lines
that become the sum of what I do
it doesn't bother me
it's only my pretence at poetry and who cares anyway?
Shakespeare?
no dear
he's long gone along with Shelley, Keats and John Donne,
I feel at times alone
like the lines don't want me and
I roam
abroad.
In Dubrovnik with a beatnik or
on the Rhone or the Rhine
I feel at home
I feel fine, in
Sierra Leone sometime alone
but mostly with friends.
I'm going to keep on skipping
keeping on ripping the
words into shreds
making some beds to
lay upon
until
I am gone.
next.