I need to start driving with a tape recorder
with the words of artists bathing me in contemplation
some living, some unfortunately fortunate to be gone
like some twisted Robbin  Hood of poetry
I eat their words, letting them fill me up,
and then photographic flashes of images
come tumbling out of me
Is there such a thing as freestyle poetry battles?
because for every poem I write
I lose twenty or so to the dead smoke filled air
my mouth forming shapes and vocal vibrations
create a stream of sacred sacrilegious words
and I speak them out to the God of all scribblers
like a possessed religious experience
touching the pure face of the divine
I only mourn my lost poems