This conduit of eternities, clicking chewed or broken
nails on a keyboard – half the letters erased – is that
who I am? Is that me? Must be; surely not the cat,
although sometimes I wonder about that…
I mean which life is she onto, Ms. Clara Blue –
certainly more than two. More like five or six.
She ain’t no one-trick hick from the sticks,
that’s plain as plain, as she siddles ’round
all purr and nuzzle – all cosmic brain
in her whiskered perfection – points me
in the right grammatical direction
(my recompense for fish remains – or else
it’s the reverse & I reward her tutorial pains)

Maybe she really is here to coach me for my big début –
sure is due, I’d say as I been plunking away
at these scribbles for…let’s just not say
‘cause as a kid I never got my anti-poetry shots;
never would hold still long enough for a needle’s worth
of conformity. Yup, as a child I was wilder than hell,
wilder than wild, and though I have defibitely slowed
down, I get the feeling I still am – least on a runaway
day…when my two feet don’t hardly touch ground.




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