Don’t try. Don’t work. It’s there. It’s looking right at us, aching to kick out of the closed womb. There’s been too much direction. It’s all free, we needn’t be told. Classes? Classes are for asses. Writing a poem is as easy as beating your meat or drinking a bottle of beer. Look. Here’s one: “flux” mother saw the raccoon, my wife told me. ah, I said. and that was just about the shape of things tonight.
