“…Tired of paragraph, formality.. Me, the writer laughing at

reality.  Step never

passively.  Home sick, or so I in-called, but not ill.  Tie

idea knots and their plot’s killed.  Another fill

of goblet.. obligation, no, pause it.  I recite

V1 rockets at skeptic, devils love to critique but never read

it.  Literary Life, I still bled it.  To dystopian doorstep

headed.  But I’m fine, need the material so I can band

a separate strand over 3 hands.  MY sense, sensibility,

2 separate sensei.  In, my hesitancy then weighs.

My pen strays with bent rays.. Colossus,

Cloverdale to Caracas, floating away imagination–

eroding the phase infatuation.. think I’m sane but

unexpectedly brained.  Tremendously Self-trained,

oration to scuffle rumbles tangible, for

those time barely unmanageable.  Plan 2not

scam a bull, my urges.. only charge, solely

card.  No ID.. low, high, plea.  I’m

entrenched in where and with what I’m bent.

On calendars like lent.  But how, when there’re

spikes sent?  …”