Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Plenty Jazz No Poetry




All the words  rushing,
propelling themselves, toppling over each other
like water through a sluice,
conveying no meaning
beyond their own chaotic flow.

Stand there with a bucket refusing to fill;
the words raining out,
ricochetting with that uncontainable energy
away from shape
like iron filings defying a magnet.

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