Took a strange trip
Went back to the past
It was as good and
as bad as any acid or
sroom trip.
Academia was so
lovely looking and
now that I growed up
I relish the thought
that I am NOT surrounded
by those kind of egos
razor sharp wits.
I am surrounded by
a vast zoo of others
some loving and some
full of hate and
jealousy interspersed
with the indifferent.
Poetry ain't dead in
me, just kinda comatose
laying there on that bed
full of tubes and wires
and using a bedpan.
4 comments:
I find poetry comes to me in seasons. I will not be inspired for years and then all of a sudden, I find myself thinking in meter.
This title teases see the column by someone named
Clark Powell from Alabama and was once rumored to be a poet ... any connection?
Yes! It is.
I'm sorry I didn't know Clark. He must have been older than me. I hope he's doing well. I miss the good times in college with folks of above average intelligence and of a different moral fiber than those I find myself stuck with now.
First of all, I can't believe that someone found this rant of a blog.
Hurray!
Secondly, I hope that it was not offensive.
I came across CP's article while looking for Tom Rabbitt. Go figure.
It THRILLED me to hear the James Dickie story again. A couple of my professors had told a similar story over a pitcher of beer at Soloman's Deli.
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