No self respecting poem wants to hang with me. As I’m apt to slap that poesy into the ether too early, still gasping, and all agog at anxious afterthought alterations. A bespoke joke birthing an interior punch-line rhyme, way before delivery time. Because juncture is the jive. That toot sweet hive be honey. Muse money. Currency.
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Constative I don’t respond to your postYour hopes, dreams, your fearsI could careI respond to your other respondersTo…