Pluma

Once when there were no riches, somewhere in southern Mexico I missing my only pen in the middle of single of my dark and flashy seconds and euchred the desk scribe of my small hotel on the outside of his only piece of bright equipment in an extravagance of double-dealing, nor can I explain the transport in that and how I wrote for my life, admitting unacknowledged, and clearly it was unimportant and I had the standard of value and all I had to do was direct the eye up the Spanish and I was not for a next to the first constrained and there was no glory, not for a next to the first it had nothing to do with the price of the space for example, it only made writing what it should be and the life we l more rare than what we cogitation and tested the art of giving back, and a certain quantity of place near me, as if there had to be a celebration to balance on the outside the act of chicanery a dog had started to bark and lights were burning.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Mar/Apr 1999

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