one hundred chinese poems
staring back at me
rhythm sticks lay on the ground
dark aborigine
a collection of gypsy jazz
and a shirt that is much too small
waiting to be sent
to a child in the fall
this pattern is my prison
of walls myself i make
of rhythms like a curse on
marching words to a beat
a strict and simple meter
that comes so easily
a childish prose that flows
and knows exactly where to be
it’s a little daffy
it’s a little bugs
a tune of loony moons and spoons
that’s starting to really tug
and chug and steam
my mind is racing
oh my inner voice
off and running
insane and spun thing
a hyper little boy
