The rogue transcendentalist. Solidarity isn't the trick.

This isn't what I really call poetry, but more so... a collection of thoughts. Random thoughts minced from scribbles of so long ago, somewhat merged into one piece. I don't really TRULY know how a poem should be, but nevertheless this is a rambling production.

- - - - -


"Break-wall-shatter,
stones of glitter and ice."

I've used that metaphor all too often
to head me in "vultur-ific" circles
that are cast overhead in my
brain.

Mallets might do the trick;
but what's enough to break The Wall?
The barriers are ESPECIALLY thick
(made of sturdy steel).

I've said it before:
glass porcelain is easy to shatter,
but not encased in dead sycamore.

Stop your dancing, you drama queen:
Get out of that dream box and learn a new tango or two.

This is not poetry.
(I repeat: this-is-not free verse anymore.
Only structured,
perfect rhythm.
For once, maybe, you should just go along
and disappoint Thoreau.)

I am not,
I will not,
complain.