Let me ask. Does a poet have to wear, a dreary beret, smoke like a stack, and be an alcoholic, or drug addict...to be a poet, or is that merely pretense...the fabric of embellishment? A man sitting in a shit house for an hour, has done as big a job, with as much concentration...but, he'll never gain a name, and ninety nine poets of a hundred will never stay at a five star hotel, no matter their genius...or their muse. A little crazy, I can understand...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Bust of Homer, google art
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