He Likes Coffee But He Doesn't Like Tea

He likes my poems, not my

short treatises and rants.

They're too tepid, too tame,

hardly crazy enough for him.

My mind machinery may be

broken...a harrow that inks

a page no much in evidence in my

self imposed dry spell...a spell

of a muse never looking over my

crazy shoulder and egging me on.

Nothing to write about except

causes and conditions...no

visions, dreams, unusual morphs,

ironic scenes. Just turned into

a straight man, a foil for banality.

He likes coffee, but,

he doesn't like tea.