I am working on real poetry, studying others and picking out the bones from the salmon of knowledge, searching for the path to success,
trying to write a poem with so much depth only
a deep sea diver with oxygen tanks will ever touch it,
to write a poem with so many lexical twists and
turns it loses itself in its own meanderings,
to write a poem clothed in so much obscurity
even I cannot see the words,
to change the marching line of words to
scramble order into chaos and call it poem.
Where the river runs, I still follow, along the banks, beneath the trees, not walking on the stream or tunnelling beneath where the gatherers of mystification lay their traps. Sky and water are poems, wordless and complete.