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.
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