in a world that is curled,
by an unfurled span,
attached to new castles,
an unshy mass
that litters the ground,
even Ms. Mitchell groaned,
that it doesn't make cents,
worth copper's weight by the pound.
Nothing here rhymes,
so what's there to do,
You don't have a clue,
so why should I try,
Then I realize I'm
not, push onward again,
commenting on my version.
My version of the pestiferousness of pestilence,
The pretentiousness of polyethylene.
The patience of impatience,
as it watches
with a mad glint
in its eye.
What happened?
This.
But before I?
That.
So?
put down the pain, writing's turgid and flat.
Words from me: unhand that tone; words
from thee are not condoned.
So glad for a present,
not tainted by the future,
So glad to be away,
from a glintingly painful past.
The hogwash I spout,
has depth meaning and texture,
though I fear often that
rhyming behaves as my censure,
and for poetry's sake maybe I'll put my hair in a tonsure,
or head to the east,
training to be a fencer.
(I do look forward to a space not governed by rhyme,
where Dr. Seuss and William Blake evade my mind,
and the pugilist is left with digested literary rinds.)
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