i'm nearer to the canadian boarder now,
the canadian coast's foaming waters and floating fish are up in my nose.
lincoln lifted the coffin lids
of his dead children -
washington spiritualist movements, rapping on the kitchen table.
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I've read most of these,
And I am humbled.
It's the false fallceto,
Fingering faries.
No, be true.
You are very bright.
Ardent light squeezing emotions.
I've read a lot of crap.
The poetry rings the soul.
Her Prosephony poetry.
I thought I was alone,
don't say you are,
Because I know I am.
I thought you say I are.
No influence I pray,
too eve-en less Adam,
To bogart bards,
In permanent exile.
The purple squid from,
Mars wants my pocket lint.
Echos of credit cards,
Smoking plastic.
Love your poetry, seriously now. I believe I have found a muse.
Hope to see you published someday.
Thanks
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