Tonight I’ll be smothered by my
own drive.
Cloth in incongruities–
But so what,
How else am I supposed to be
On the rue with Pablo,
Ernie? Or even Zelda?
I’m the crazy one,
Always looking for larks, tons
of happenstance delves.
Sip again, by the bookstore,
I self exile and imprison in moments
cause it gives me more reason, rationale
As my professor Bob used to say, or
At least infer. I’m incurred to slowness like
Rain on a hobbling elephant seal by Lover’s
Point. And I think I’ve
Proved my
Point. So now I can relax in this unknown room, some
Hotel in Boston, by a smelly corner–
I do smell chowder, in know
It’s a stereotype, but…