It’s not enough
to drop the capitals
anymore, breaking
lines up and down
the page,
not enough giving up
clichés, only to recast
their shadows
in romantic fragments
or the scramble
of word eggs. Not
enuf to mimic the fast
talking street lingo,
drum beat of a
windmill,
not enough to
place restraints
on the dread sign!
The poet must
bust open the brain,
drain out those
burnt synapses,
flush the mind’s
mulled wine and start
again with java
injected
into the heart,
the big muscle
that beats time
out of its cave
and hangs on
human history.
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