Apostrophe, my own diary logging me,
Clocks in trees, following my deeds.
Re-read Thoreau so I can let go, I bet
The sunset’s glow shows more plateaus
For my throws. My growing ego, tempered by December, I promise. Any
Civil Disobedience, I applaud it. Chased by machines that want me erased, defaced, so their agenda’s plate’s clean. My scroll, quite serene–
I’ll fight for my light plight then lean on
My ideology’s cords, not exactly a theology’s floor. Do I need any more?
–Baptism my stats given to operating agencies, thinking I’m flagrantly offering free thought. Checking stations, my readers, hoping they won’t see me caught. Room 101– my doom, come no sun. Cinematic acrobatics with attitude platitudes. One due, under troop shoes. I’m the writer bruised. Revolving rhyme in devolving time. Paradox plots– take stock of what is and not. Stir pot, for bird knots.