The poet is a fisherman, and thus thoughtless,
Unwanting, Unwaiting in zen patience
With his line deep in streams of consciousness
Until he gets a bite.
The poet is a tumbleweed, and thus brainless.
He rambles over language, a great expanse,
Until he finds himself stuck someplace
That is noplace.
The poet is a mad slasher, and thus heartless,
Stabbing his pen deep into life on earth
As many times as it takes to strike black gold,
Common blood.
The poet is a masker, and thus faceless,
Free, unrestricted, and somehow less.
Everything he does and says is forgotten, meaningless
Until sanctioned or censored.
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