Thursday, August 11, 2016


I pretend to be a poet.
Impressions come in,
words come out
like meat from a grinder
fresh and raw forever.
Not super attenuated
pre packaged
copy ready
for critics who only appreciate
what they expect to see.

Real poetry can't be pigeonholed
like Creeley
Velveetas of cheesy word smithing.

Show me a Rimbeaud
or leave me alone.

I didn't have to write...I make no
claim other than I'm out of control,
everyone should aspire to that, IMHO.

Talk talk talk about what they want to do.
but don't because of the BIG BUT.

So much possibility...lost in Picadilly,
(pick a city) no money, just some clothes
on the skin....

...jumping a ship as a cook and crossing
the ocean...

..waking in a jungle of gardenias...

...getting lost is the only way you'll find yourself.

Even where you are is's name
is mere superstition.

I'm a serendipitous simulacrum,
a latah mimicking a human being
only acting
as if all this was real
so I don't scare the straight people.


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