One chapter of my great epic
complete (minus editing/
a reread) on to progressively
denser stuff--
It's daunting
me poor poet of Philadelphia
born teller of disjointed
impressionist illusions
jotting jotting pencil marks
typed word document reading notes,
prose--
I saw Monet today, he frowned
read Kerouac, in some spa
cried of lonely nights
and mosquito bites
doused in second hand smoke
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