Writing

I try to be humble when it comes to evaluating poetry, reminding myself, that my penned gems may seem paste to others – addicted to cuneiform glitter, my mining deeply within our shared reality tunnels sometimes left mere holes for better landscapers forced to fill in – the dirt I scatter to the surface, the rocks, thousands of years' old boulders pulverized for dear expediency, justifying actions by use of strong verbs and a lot of campie adjectives – the new normal, I am told, nouns are fluid... I guess, the rain piss, and the sun an insidious thirst for those shunning government sanctioned kool-aid to drink, like myself, finding shelter in the holes we have dug for self and others, calling them natural abodes, or bypass for an earth desperately in need of new moral arteries – Well...having belittled who I am and what I do, for me, my pen yet lingers a rod and staff of sorts, a pacifier habitually in search of divine nipples....