(20 minute poetry)

Desperate times call for even more desperate measures
and the measure of man's in the time that he treasures, the good leaf days.
So we okay the game and play along with the plot, but an actors lot's not a happy lot, not what you'd call
the pick of the crop, more like the puck and that's a candidacy for lunacy.

**** it,
I am a poet
I plant words,
Poetry?
I grow it in a two by four.

What more can time do to me? I am ancient
my back is bent
my legs are bowed,
two eyes that once glowed with anti-cipation
are now dulled with a hint of mild hesi-tation.
It's all for one now and everyone for himself
how?
I don't know.

It could be the twenty first century thing to be nothing to no one
to go it alone.

At Mile End, the days end drowns out the dreams and muffles my screams,
but never slows down the clock.