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Filigree and Ink, I Ain’t

Bought an E-book
of Thug Lit
in a fit
of a search
to perch
and perhaps
poach
some sub-genre
game

but the Warden
of my many weaknesses,
clued:

you have no pen
for romance

Concordat

Line by line
to pronounce and parse…

Yes, but.
I read not, the poem,
I overhear the poet

a colloquy of an unconscious conspiracy,
I suspect…
This semi-scripted eavesdrop

a listen in,
to a well routed happenstance,
hopefully


My Writing Space has invaded the dinning room. Snz issues second warning. Note Razor Viper Mouse dongled
to MBP.

In celebration of the recognition of my public expiration date, we fine dined with whine and wine… and then, just on time… ordered a firewall off the menu. A gated corner to decompose, I suppose, and juxtapose rickety rhyme with the arthritic current. Politics, like crack, can crumble a community. And poems have cities sacked. So to host the post behind lock and key is thus this April’s journey. A spring in my step.


While pretending to plot a novel, I’m playing with new photo editing apps. Filter after filter.

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