Consumed like plastic wrapped meattrinkets
in a grocery store sit my writer's heart
at sleeve length atop the dungheap
others refer to as my telelogical continuity.
No real meaning in the authentic sense of all things.
Banished by unanimous braincommittee from
both Verona and Eden.
Cursed to trudge and toil in the furrows
of other mens' minds whilst expected
to spray my own with his pesticides
and pull my own nettles and buckthorn
without gloved hands.
Tender is the constant gardner of his own
plantation; brutal and swift is he toward lesser mens'
victory gardens.
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