poets who write on and on – who jumble words about meaning – who want us to kneel at the altar of their feelings; their sure things – are like priests promising angel dust sprinkles to anyone.
poets who unhinge themselves writing silent scribbles lose the tongues of their adulation – the passion of their whispers, and are like children who’ve stuffed their mouths too full with crumbs.
poets who no longer sing in voices that express clarity about charity, are like champions who have lost the battle with reverberation – explaining to god, that sound is too big a demand to place on a word in the beginning.
poets who perspire hallucinated tears while struggling with where to place a (.) are believers in the hoodoo of modern grammar and are like bellhops wondering where a paradigms suitcase might live.