Beat, surreal, dada. Heart to fist poems regress. Thought finds no paper.
As I climb further into my fifties I’ve begun the transition from mid-life crisis to elder angst.
Sometimes I feel like the literary equivalent of a prop comic.
Nothing disturbs a rebellious 16 year old more than meeting a 51 year old who likes all the same bands.
I had to give up my latest hobby when I discovered it was supposed to be scrap booking not scab booking.
Remember, you can get arrested in Las Vegas for ending a sentence in a proposition.