Burning through the night with frazzled visions and petty dreams of grandeur.  The poetry does not rise.  The cool November air nips at my ligaments.  The trees are barren.  The night is sullen and I fuse the pen to my fingers.  I try to seep my blood into the ink of the pen.  The magic is not there tonight.  I clutch the pen and stare into nothing.  I find nothing there.  I can not transcribe it into language.  Pestilence lurks but its fragrance doesn’t distract olfactory sense.  The cool Autumn air waltzed gracefully across the evening sky.  The petty dreams are still alive.  Viva les revés.



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allets's picture

Long Live The Dream!

What do you do with ten thousand poems? copyright and publish volumes by year? Or bonfire? Leave the lit to a library? Start a City Lights type publishing company? Dream on? Hmmmm. ;D






georgeschaefer's picture

I do have my own publishing

I do have my own publishing company.  I have ressurrected it after a couple decades and I am getting ready to rock.