“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me,
I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were
taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it.
Is there any other way?” ~? Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters


Gung ho about
Spoken and written word
Words are my high in last word

Meted silence, terrible
Was, is, a corporeal
Blow, dastardly

Sublimation is oft touted
Route not taken by me
I sweated blood guts tears

Words are music to my ears
Engaging mind in emotional diminuendos
Crescendos, deprivation, a death knell

Imposed silent mode intolerable
Landed me in tizzy’s catcher mitt, especially
You who are normally tres prosaic, bread, butter man

Veteran of lost $1000 wager in less than two hours
Rifle of silence resting butt on word cruncher head, as price
For grim hours, two times four excruciating twenty

My impatience and obsessive need to share
Fun and gamine gossip with lurid details won the day
and I lost the bet amidst cackles of jeering ignominy

Words, words and more words
They are my boxcars of sixes, snake eyes two
Ambrosia, poison soaring divinely, dipping, diving

*image is via google images only-disclaimer


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