The Right Column



. . . pouring its light into ashes . . .

     -R. Hunter


spontaneous
poem
nodes
iterator
   The poem he wrote
    wasn't the one that he had said in his mind.
  He couldn't remember the exact phrases.

  A piano on a barge?
    A violinist on deck.
  Fifty less hours of sleep.
    He was tripping.

  And he wasn't afraid
    what they'd say 
  who weren't going to hire him anyway.

  You can't base a 
        psychological profile
    on random thought spouts from 
      the middle of the night.

   It was getting on to 3 AM.
    He hadn't even had a thought yet.
   But there they were, twenty poems.

.
   
    from poem page 43



keep repeating 
what it is you are beating.