Written un Zen like pomes
in the surgical removes of sanity;
the density of clouds
debated by meteorologists
stoned on the mist of Autumn eve
& the solitude
got to me and I finally snapped.
It were too late to save me;
The angels all returned to heaven
in the tattered loins of Zeus
& I was held for questioning
by the Cosmic Psychotic Police
believing I had a motive
to commit the crime of literature.
But I became too conscious of it
& hence had to give it up
& hence had to give it up;
move on to some new dilemma
in some other realm
into which I do not wish to enter