What the hell is that?
Pretend poetry. 
Blank, yes, but free?
Or is it just me – because 
I can’t ditch the cadence 
permanently. It’s like a taunt,  
haunting as I feel my way
down forbidding alleys 
like four fingers into a glove. 
There is a stepdance rhythm
in my ancestry. I can’t help that; 
it follows like some dimwit spaniel. 
I try to shake it but [I’ll trade for 
a feline metaphor] the cat keeps 
coming back – and It does me doggerel. 
I write the worst rhyming shit imaginable
punished for having tried 
to escape the pulse in my blood. 




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