it's not odd at all, actually, it's quiet
welcome...
   people don't make investments
in terms of poetry...
   not an investment worth quantifying
the progress of the art...
    as odd as it might seem...
poetry always wants for people
to not invest in it...
           esp. within the framework
of investment being ordained
  the golden standard of time -
            i can, and will call it:
   ars tempus - or art of the time -
no one goes to bed and attempts
to read a book to fall asleep to...
of all the writing expression -
philosophy prose is the evolving
primate,
     fictional literature
   is the domesticated
bonsai tiger...
    oddly enough? poetry is still a fox...
poetry is still a rascal...
       poetry is still the wolf...
it's too conscious...
    for my best part in describing it:
poetry is transcendental insomnia:
poetry is "too" awake,
or should i say: mindful of
a blank page?
                  like some
     incessant masturbator
who does it 20 times a day
and teaches the ******
   of not ******* any fluid -
then goes to the kitchen,
drinks a pint of milk...
             and just keeps on going...
as if he's shuffling cards
           in a las vegas casino...
later confessing:
        i think i've the parkinson's
  handshake and a fetish for
   spandex clad type
        spanking motivation...
                      hmm, wa'tcha t'ink?