Thoughts rise like gas

Thoughts rise like gas as I sit on the can. White walls dull as the technical faculty, or facility I guess, of a poet. Who couldn't take quickly to the counting, and variation, of feet? How many years wasted before the epiphany of full-bodied beat? Could be a lifetime, this lifeline, or you could get away without it. Spring and all, against the grain. As if any work could be without it. To mind the line but not to toe it. The line is a plank but it's not. The poem is not a pirate ship, but it is, as it sails with its stolen cargo below deck, sails ever under the sign of skull and crossbones. The lines, canons. Galleys charged with forgetfulness. Samples composed of dummy text . . .

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