My signature style
is just to blab.
To let it all hang out
like excess flab.
Why must I tell you people
every little thing?--
Sentiment too lengthy for page,
words too choppy to sing.
I would hate to think
some see me as a fraud
who does things without thinking
that they could not, or,
should not applaud.
But even with a gallery of images in mind
the words that come out are too honest, I find.
(and they are ugly,
they are so ugly)
No covering up with watercolors today,
Every talent here has been washed away.
Only with my signature you are left
the loopy, whirly, twisty, bereft.
Tickle your toes. . .
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
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Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
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The Anchor for Joel When love embarks, with its generating propellers slicing through the interminable oceans of imperfection that are, for ...
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Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...
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I dismiss my mounds of paper, habitual piling. I embrace a soft blue-jay's tail.
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August 2003! A spree, and the W.A.P another month of you and possibly me W.A.P stands for wild animal park, if you don't remember- the ...
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It's not the pen It is the ink But it is the dishes and not the sink and it's never in your eye but in your wink it's just froze...
Poets United Contributor
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