What the hell is that?.
Pretend poetry.
Blank, yes, but free?
Or is it just me – because
I can’t ditch the cadence.
It’s like a taunt, haunting
as I feel my way down alleys
like four fingers into a glove.
There is a stepdance rhythm
in my ancestry. i can’t help it;
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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