Grist for the grist mill,

cheese for the cow

and everyone gets just

a little bit older and wiser

but not me, not that kink

thrown to the gear not the

shoe caught up in itself not the

fragrant embolism. Give

me the fruit and the freedom, these

little wonders keeping me on

the up and up. And maybe a hair

to pluck or a lip to kiss or a

squadron to command. But

these are not necessities,

only tokens of bittersweet hubris.

1 Response to “po-em”

  1. 1 algomasquerealidad.wordpress.com April 1, 2008 at 9:32 pm

    so good!
    i like the words who spend the time in the strange true.
    Good bye

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From the desk of A. D. Jacobson.

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