I write this
to ask opinion I won’t take
or to prod you for no reason,
to work you up without cause,
poke for poking’s sake
till the Arctic thaws,
and all its ice floats out
to cool the spring season,
hence no more drought
in the hot health of Hell,
for cracks take in the crisp
cold waters of that white smell.
Dull grey a wisp
of flaccid smoke drifts
over veridian shores
and through sand, sifts
for unfound gold,
only found are plagued spores
lifting up like a shaman’s
prophecy in fire foretold.
There is no more meaning
to this story of the third man
than this apologue of weaning
smoke that mets ice
of Arctic persuasion.
No, this is not from friend nice
nor hectic doctor’s note
nor tale from the mistress
of well-intentioned indecision;
this poem is simply to bug you
with its inadequate rhyme
and quotations misquote.
I hope I cause distress
in that old you that is worn shoe
and hates my syntax and
grinds thy soul to sand,
much like that foul wisp
that started this.