There is no doubt in my mind
That the poet is the perfect
Idiot-child
So blinded and thunderheaded by seeing
And misunderstanding
That he acts amazed when a black cloud
Appears from a truck
When a flower dances shyly with an insect

When he gets to the page
There is no order or sense
Just heart and mechanic
Bleeding ink
With no sense of order or sense.
He fingerpaints over reality.
Of course no one listens to him
-the babbling- the stupidity- the sordid excellence-

would you?