Sitting on the bus:
A sudden chill down her leg
She panics
for a moment
before realizing
it's summer
And more importantly
the liquid pouch
is in her backpack.

Gun in hand
to spill the colored truth
of poet’s own grey matter
Neurons dying to and fro to
figure out
if a stanza suicide is worth committing

Pen, on the other hand
dangles a juicy metaphor
from the *******.

what was the question?

Robert Frost
is quoted to have said:
"Writing free verse
is like playing tennis
with the net down."

I suspect
he never knew the joy
or challenge
of playing tennis with himself
against a wall.

Semantic stars collude, collide
until the brightest constellation of words
emerges to articulate for life
what cosmology would consequently liberate:
Emancipating sentence served in the unspeakable tongue
Oxymoron’s ill delight

In the pitch-black universe of language
Oxymora hide
the darkest matter