Grubb Street writers...

           #169

         This Poet

This poet never blots a line,

Though many fall far short of fine;

This poet never mends his verse,

Unless it ends with death or hearse,

For lately he has felt unwell

And cringes at the thought of Hell,

A literary enterprise

For poetasters, wits, magpies.

Being confused...

           #157

   Being and Nothingness

Sometimes I sleep...

Sometimes I wake...

I never know clock time.

         Therefore,

I turn myself into a verse

And seal it with a rhyme.