American Poet

So this is style...another rose emerging into the cold, petals wilted, thorns exposed. A complete inner world of contemplation mirrored distinctly in a lucid and supple prose. I'm aware of my heart on my sleeve, it makes it easier to breathe...or was that easier to bleed? By any means, please, marry each idea to it's opposite. More Amarillo rest stop and truth beside your pillow and Joyce, him too, talking of the routine. Maybe to expand upon this notion: The rest stop is in your head and truth is what Sojourner says and Joyce, he's the intellect, the deft hand applying pressure against the wind and the breath. The one who chases the ox...and the hare and you're right there again. Like the lug shaft pressed firmly against a boot, another seed I have lying in root. Oblivion in me. I'm resting in places too calm to disguise.