Rara Avis

Back then, time ticked loudly, clocks ran faster than chipmunks. Young bones were fueled by green grenades, I needed speedbumps for my brain. Mother said that If I lived to be a man I would be all strewn about like a crow-pecked scarecrow. Eventually I discovered a way to give words a meaning outside of the hide-bound and buckram dictionary. Naturally I had to surrender some grammatical logic for a more fanciful argot. It was only then that my pipsqueak prattle had the effrontery to call itself ‘poetry.’ Now in n my grizzly elder state, I still remain a rare bird, ever bamboozled by age-worn chalk-talk, or any jargon that refuses to jump out of its own skin.