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Jul 2012
This is the last of the songs I'll write for the mothers sitting with legs crossed on wooden chairs at the end of interest. This is the second of lines that explain my tendency to forgo madness and play into the hands of literacy and fortune. This is the eighteenth sentence that tells anyone who cares to listen that my dancing in between the lines of each page upon which my pencil glides is not nearing the end but rather coming full circle before smoking circles destroy the first seventeen. And in the end I would hear a response and try to interpret subjects beyond my ability to comprehend.
N R Whyte
Written by
N R Whyte  Toronto
     --- and N R Whyte
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