many months can pass in the chasm of creativity,
          each block spanning a quarter mile
on the desolate street which the writers call home;

and yet one lyric of a single song can cease the silence,
           breaking like a dollar bill into the
clamor of loose change in a poor peasant's pocket.

I finally got around to watching that Robin Williams flick,
           warranted by solemn respect for the dead,
his society of poetry, ripping out the pages of rules
.


WE are the dead; short days ago we lived,
and now we are food for worms,.