The way I see it, there is no

salvation in any season except

during the Autumnal Equinox.

Reigning in images is what poets

do from park benches at night when

strangers approach bearing gifts.

Thieves abound so beware. Jiggle

the mace as a warning; they will

walk on at an accelerated rate.


Skeet shoot tomorrow. Everyone

is welcome. Poets will be flung across

the sky and critics can sling their best

insults. The clay pigeons will sit in

the crow’s nest howling. Ginsberg

will be pleased.


Migration is the only answer. South

is the new Mecca for anyone who wants

to write above minimum wage. Return for

the winter solstice. They do not

get a lot of snow there.







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