1 min read

But Of Course I’m A Failed Poet


I fret when I feel
the verse too rehearsed
the line too on time
the abstract too exact—
or an interior rhyme too
refined, sublime, or—
one trick tony

I pony up to run
on the rail—then
afraid to fail, I move wide
to be sure to obscure
the finish line- that
Winner’s Circle of Hell—
and a subsequent pell-mell
descent— in having to dissent
the matter of my own canon

NaPoWriMo April 2020.


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

Previous Story

A Death Rattle In The Cloud?

Next Story


%d bloggers like this: