Insomniac Poetry Theatre:
For my Bastard English Professor


A thousand words
to make the grade,
a thousand words
to choke on--
you want me writing
just this way,
a subject fools
go broke on.
You pushed me down
you hoped I'd die,
clipped off my wings
and bid me fly.

You think I'll break.
You think I'll cry.

A hundred ways
to cut me up,
a hundred ways
to kill me--
you drained my blood
without a care,
and with those cares
you filled me.
You made me hurt
you made me cry,
took out my life and
let me die.

Or so you think.
Or so you tried.

Shut down your brain,
lift up your mind,
get out the gears
clean out the grime--
and no,
I do not
have to rhyme. . .

I'll tell you what--
I'll tell no lies.

So sorry:

Poets never die.  






September 18 2003