ode to writerscafe poets.

 

 

 

   the old dog is filthy, has a short, twisted leg

   and pterygium covering my good eye.

   We were lucky

   to have cut him off before the bridge,

   though the drought has dried the fish up.

   Who really needs to loose a good dog

   to the spoils of a worn out river?

 

 

   variant, distant people

   with their worn out baskets

   filled with new bread for the vatic's

   fabled, publican readings.

   Be so very careful.

   Indagate and incircle

   the zen makers.

   Hide their beads and

   headress. Squat low in

   the indian corn.

 

 

   plead holy to the tacid:

   We shall never, ever outlive

   the need for new poetry.

 

   we can never

   outrun the adventure.

Reviews

[Emily B]

feelling lucky to be part of a world that will never outlive poetry