Once it starts it's over
this addictive syntax
can't help myself still
rhyming, achoo, plus tax
And I go down to ships
and ride again to hounds
just a lot of gibberish
but I like the way it sounds
Homeric and Om-eric
my epic Omi tragicomedy
I sink and think as I drink
such a big lot of memory
how to explain so little
that exists of past-tense me
it only tangentially lives
in my fractal multiplicity
In all other verses I saw
with semblance of clarity
this one is taking me to places
I've no framework with which to see
got no Alaska recall to
guide me on this journey
reaching blind for hand rails
that aren't available to me
This one is free-falling
no Michigan fine pine rhyme
no clue where it's heading
will I finally crash land this time?
I can't see the bottom nor
the edges of trajectory
I'm shooting blind from the hip
to mix drinks metaphorically
There has always been a vision
an encompassing to my rhyme
Even if it changed direction
it always got there sort of on time
What scares the hell out of me
is I'm a ghost forecalling the tune
I'm my own ghost writer
I hope it will end pretty soon
Or do I? Another fine Mar product
the sexy kazoo key change...
Yanno if I'm honest IDK
where this spirit writing will lead
this poem is writing itself
it's my job to shut up and heed
I wonder when I read in the morn
after the wine has worn off
will I see what I see now
or will I just headache and scoff
this free-flowing wine verse
is easier to write than the rest
the others are clumsy and exhausting
this one is just flies off my chest
But for all the Walden existence
for all my Thoreau clarity
in my ever transcendentalism
I still seek some unity
Thank God for the family
the ones that I call mine
help me brother to bring this
into a state of sublime.
I am weary with the speaking
talking with out saying a word
sonneting my hurt in poems
I just finally want to be heard
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