a.m. rushed rime, clutch climb

Change my situation, re-arrange my

consideration. Avoid evisceration, manuscript

mutation; delineation of my logic, analytical

optics, like hot spots in tropics,

Struggle, I, navigate collections of crowds,

inceptions of Nows; Me, the author with

sharp eyebrows.  Shapes in clouds, deconstruct the

plates of loud politicians that want city limits in constant

contrition.  Never the freethinker; we isolated,

remind the stated, words in irregular tapestry.

My Self, mad at me, oddly.  It’s the poetry-

caffeine blend, probably.  Never still, forever

anthologically thrill.  Gothic undercurrent, prose

and verse, my chosen nerves.  Cubist derivative,

I’m the truest superlative, with Petite Sirah dripping

into my works’ flaws.  Mended, reflectively ascended.

[4/23/12, Monday]

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mikemadigan

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