Said the poet: tis to be a rhyming year,
and fearfully went hunting for a simile —
it was madness, when the right words were so very proximate,
but these days, even Verse demands to be liberated.
Said the poet: here I shall add uneven lines that lack cohesion and dawdle to the margins
AbStractIoN found IN grapEfruit
where there once was music, I will burn the beethoven, make ashes to rove in
with 5/8 or 7/16 crow
bars, ignoring the
ing themselves to death
rupting pulse after
(and apparently this is the truest portrait of the human soul)
it is the modern way
there will be no rhyme
or rhythm today
Said the poet: lo! I have seen my coming hearse
but, even so, I will weave my fine noose of verse.
Photograph courtesy Acton Wright.