mmmccxvii

Magnesium

I don’t want to write
a real sentence.  Not
about this.  Let us be-
gin with a primary ten-

et of inspired writing (a 

silly phrase that hovers
in the vicinity of creative
penmanship).  My father,

as it turns out, would
be, with such hokey
rules, a creative writer.
Which is absolute per-

fection!  So let it be!
But I, of course, didn’t
finish what I was say-
ing before getting side-

tracked (a character-
istic that, under any
other umbrella, would
best be labeled: flaw).

(How fun to be so
unintentionally did-
actic; it’s just such a
slip-shod profession

that were one also
criminal, one could
surely, within the
purview of one’s

work, excuse a
a murder.)  With
a minimum of
contrition I must

ask (forgive the
repetition of this
fair question),
What was I

getting at?  Ah,
now I remember.
You may now each
and all throw out

whatever rules to
ward which you’ve
heretofore striven.
The path toward

perfection lies
only after such
dispensation.
What I mean

to say (and I do to
you now) is that any-
thing you call a sen-
tence is a sentence.

One step further:
anything you might
call a poem, is with
certitude, and by

your so calling, a
poem.  If I say I
am a poet, I am a
poet.  Repeat after

me: It is such a del-
ight to write.  Again.
And with at least a
tad more imagination!