Writing and I communicate in on-again, off-again partnership
head, heart, lexicon involved in the oddest of threesomes
intent: my truth, however shrouded in hieroglyphics
eerily similar to the dissonance of betrothals at brothels
Be it orthodox, multi-interpretational or indecipherable
with art or anything else, when is less more and more less?
or enough enough, for fulfillment, mere satiation or slighter?
the muse impossible to satisfy, often barely romanceable
Daveed says everybody has one murder in themselves
I call myself a hunter, a mere stalker of words
search, then sight, followed by aim and fire
is it a flesh wound, a hollow miss or inspiring fulfillment?
Being a lazy poet with a sloth-like indolence
“a minimalist” as I often spout with elan
a subdued pilgrim of the single word poem
be it ever elusive, not even half a haiku
Of no known western habitat
neither of dictionary nor thesaurus
a free agent of precious short scribbling
yet capable of intimacy with seekers