I was speeding away from the cops (unjustly accused of groping a bratty girl in a tex-mex cantina) without an instant to throw on my glasses I made it a ways on the highway dodging semis and metal rails
a poem- (to phrase it weakly, as my muse is, as I, sickly) may be a bohemian exudation, a war-like insinuation, a contemplated, learned elaboration, or one of a thousand other Orphic manifestations--
(dedicated with love to my Mom Cecelia ) Having dodged a hundred bullets, championed some ten lost causes, forgotten a thousand amazing tales and concepts,
I came to him in pain and with shame (he reminded me of birth, famine, and rain) he is or was a neurologist by trade (with a frank, quick-witted way of seeing) an inspection of my poet's half-carcass he made
