I wonder if I can write a MCRWVBL*PM poem anymore.
It’s been years.
Let’s try:
Yaode, Johhn, J°Hhn, J:hn, Y?
(more than seven) make their
way across the bridge, a solid
selling, grief has turned the
bridge (or two) into (three or
more) who yelp and resist their
way across the John. The Roane.
I have earned a river-frosted (one)
loosening of the limbs with my
River buckets. This makes me (one)
wonder if I am connected to
scents or if I am loosening the
grip of the saint (7) by it’s longevity?
Good question, professor John says
and also says the tomatoes in the
jar have gone bad don’t touch them,
don’t no back away help I am you
and have been dead for years already,
sea creature of the biggest heart.
My heated development has
Team Luca scrambling across the
earth, earning not much more than
our patience. Someone will be sad,
won’t they? Someone won’t go,
despite all that happens. Our
hefted sea has a battery of arrangement.
John says that loosely titled works
are the form of devil-worship,
but I haven’t even read Salman
Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses and
anyways we don’t talk about
sun filtration here. (Crawley et
alwey). When mornings feel heavy,
I tend to write like Dean Young (one).
Sometimes I also just say things
aloud, simply because
I could / I can. I
been dead for years already.