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 onΒ skipping keeping on ripping the words into shreds making some beds to lay upon until I am gone.