I found John today.
John died yesterday.
I read of John today.
I vibrate now to his pinch.
Somewhere by a poisoned river
a dead man was born...
Somewhere by a noisy airfield
a pre-writ obit finds me -
The news can still be news.
My future in writing has
been torn and reborn,
today. By George, by John!
A minced oath
of mint stuff.
John left in order to
be found and I surround
myself with his words -
Speaking aloud a baleful
cento of his wordings.
A funerary recitation
lofted into the bitter air
as I read to myself and
some phrases go
burbledy out -
smoke in the pines.
What else, who else
might next die that I
will find it?
Minced oath eruption
Hidden stream of slippery fish
Flexible madness
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