Tuesday, March 29, 2016

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.


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