March 19 by The Running Son
a venial sin
I almost wrote a poem
matching Bukowski’s gross burlesque,
and nearly dispatched a clever expletive
with the hip sting of context
almost confessed my guts out
on the same sooty stratum as Sexton
and just about gained lockstep
with old mister Frost
but diverged did I down some metaphysical mile
between Plath and St. John of the Cross.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.