This poem is carrying a sign  

that says it’s busy, working its ast
-*erisk off, worth its salt. It’s tired of

being underpaid for scribbling storms
and pen-painting darkest hour dawns.

This poem is highly motivated and power
hungry. It is glorious in its gregarious

-ness, and boisterously bragging of its
hunka-hunka-burnin’ love hip-stanzas.

It has decided (well in advance)that it shall
contain allof the (26) prompts, all of the pomp

and circumstance. It’s broken every record
for finding lost c(l)auses and glee-glimpsing

that moon. This poem is no oxymoron nor con
-struct of quiet passive aggressive forgiveness.

You’ll find no sorry here, only protest and post
-adolescent enthusiasm; spasms of praise

and private hopscotch prayer. If you dare be
brave enough to question her ability to shine

or swing or sway, beware the day of reckon
-ing. She’s a professional confessional, anti

-hate and laced up straight (jacket) pride.
She’s flush and far and wide and away

the greatest of her kind. She’s (i)amb
-itious, delicious, pent-ametered just right.

*She’s on a toxic tear, a rogue, a rant.
(I’d explain it later, but I can’t.)

In November, we poem. This is the one with all the prompts.



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