Monday, November 24, 2008

A poem without a plot or a plan

There's got to be one thing you are holding to
one that when every other thing dies
you are still clinging to;
to have it, there's only one clue:
it should not own a face
a mustache, a nose, a chest,
it should be weak and aloof enough
so as not to stand being categorized.

Old criteria lost.
Children are no more considered guilty for
committing the crimes that led their parents to jails and exiles.

If you have money,
then you don't need to sit at nights,
think of a good idea to be realized,
and wait a million days for one to come up
and then waste it,
by perhaps selling, a million copies of it
to people who don't even care about you
and know only your words and frames.
Not what I wanted.
Not what I pursued.


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