Friday, February 3, 2017

BOTTOM LINE

Second Prize Winner
in a Beauty Contest—ugly
and local
as ever.

It's always
Five O'clock
somewhere—some
miserable lachrymose happy hour.

The name of the game
is Pageantry; ceremonial torches
clutched and waved
and hoisted high—identify Ambassadors.

Form exists
wild in nature; of whatever will burn
in fire, yet persist
in the embers of memory.

Rhythm consists
less of
sheer facts than the
regularity of their delivery.

As for Content,
beware: volition. A rose is a rose.
But a poem
might be—Poetry.

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