A Slab Of Metrical Metal

in Poetry

old means old is fine with me
the new computer being unfamiliar,
mine in name only

sitting lonely,
near two micro (stereo) speakers
awaiting a blue tooth baptism

still absent this sinner’s signature
of creative conceit and keyboard

antiseptic in anthropomorphic backwash –
like blood transforms silicon into bit
and byte share…

I’d rather stare, at the potential.


OK, you semi-cool cats..check out the first track’s french horn at the very end of the cut.

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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