Sip Chardonnay from Burgundy, off to orate on
Bourbon Street. Rime whatever I can. Time,
wherever I plan. No longer stand. My own fan, carrying
contraband, on the tran only to be banned, can’t
understand. Exhausted from this deceptive game board,
not sure I can play more, decided I need to relish the day more.
But what can I do anew? Wish the machine adieu. New
bullion, off and on to pursue the true. Refuse to pay
due to a rouse. The bastion lacks yoke. How many readers
can I really reach if I get lost in my own speech?
Cursory brilliance. Murder me, still win, I do. Why
you? ‘Cause I’m me. Why flee from this secrecy? No
critic dares to bother me. Victim of robbery, possibly.
Madigan pedagogy, a stronger thing. Profound offering. Sing
through verse, even if it hurts. This is the duty I’ll never
shirk. Dirt in gun, maybe too hurt to run. A fallen son. Done.
Cote du Rhone, sipping. Own thrown, clipping wings
of those that oppose and chose me for artistry rivalry.
Take time with rime and sign no line. Too much, almost
broke the glass. Cloak too fast with this juice. Repeat
myself, delete my wealth with vigor, poise. Too much
noise. Television and guns, no time for such toys. A new
day, Tuesday, only three left to regret. Unhinged
fringe, a certain binge, of the pen man. The then-man, again
when I ransack, attack, propel intentional flack. No foe
escaping through cracks. I’ve been taping through maps,
in search of what, not sure. Perhaps something impure. What if
I have a fling on tour, reading volumes in tall rooms?
Four more lines, score more fines. Dismiss the cops, the
journalism never stops. A leopard in trees, I’m like
feathers in breeze. Devils tease. No ‘please’. My
manuscripts expand across land like disease, fire or freeze.