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
—
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.
