My early poems aspired to Keats and Blake;
were about magic, dreams, and heartbreak.
Most rhymed, were trite, and told more than showed;
rolled off the tongue, no taste of the acid down below.
Tonight I’ll dream that a colony of ants has dragged
me out to sea, where I discover my belongings and I
have become so much flotsam and jetsam.
“The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason.” ― T.S. Eliot, Murder at the Cathedral I have accumulated much, living this life: gadgets, garments, souvenirs of a desire briefly sated, denied, unrelenting. […]