i don't believe in italics,
and discard semicolons
with sheer malice.

i don't worship correct grammar,
or smash-up metaphors
with a hammer.

ee cummings and his whimsical word strummings,
i remember reading ezra pound
when i was just
a breastfeeding petal
on a dark, wet bough
lost, and then found.

a dustbitten volume of dickinson
breaking hearts with bullseye darts.
love is always a charade
that plays us like fiddles
in quick fits and starts.

on a good day, sunsure,
before the first cardinal
first awoke
backed by a chorus of horny roosters,
i opened up
lord byron's can of sardines:
unbound prometheus,
his lover's leap across the aegean
as the sirens start to wail,
and cyclops tries to post bail.

i don't believe in parentheses,
and toss out dashes with emphases.

i don't have faith in question marks,
or smother similes
in barren parks.