J'accuses
me,
that Stevie Rhymer
felony thievery, wholesale robbery,
of them blunts of good words,
and stashed the hiding fumes in my lungs

plead guilty,
with a Cool Hand Luke
studied pretense and a
huge ear to ear smirking of a
"who me"
innocence

it seems mucho unseemly,
bright pink tongue laughable,
stealing that chaste yellowed white chaff conceptual,
innocenctal,
cause i'm knowing it's well buried, lost-littered,
across the poppies of a poem-field
GPS mapped as
My Very Own Private Flanders

this one-night-only lynching of a yoga-flexible,
occasional reappearing conscience,
taking a short bow,
loosened by a
Manufactured in the USA,
cross-continental heat seeking arrowed
verbal verdict

soul and control,

two words that should rhyme,
but don't,
so in the valley of the bleached bones,
find me spending my last San Fran dime,
entrance fee to the accountant's confessional,
who greets me with a quizzical
why the hell are you prepaying this year's sin tax?

this confessing gig
awfully tiring,
like locating all those
?'s, periods and commas,
punk'd punchuation on the the keyboard,
of who you are

yeah, stole them all, them words,
burnt off the serial killing numbers,
now untraceable, masked in a thousand poems
that no one commissioned and barely read

in a vision,
i see my Barre gray gravestone appropriately blank,
steel cut smooth,
like a clean sheet of foolscap

an enterprising thief came along,
stole all the useful
Alphabets and numerals
to my vociferous silent applause

you see Stevie,
all those good words,
and literary hints from an over educated man,
ain't worth a good *******,
when u just lazy emoji these days

so take 'em, anyone,
great honor to me to see them
pray rise someone else's field,
in a new poem
by somebody else