WAYSIDE

WAYSIDE

Not a doubt
my script is being written
by a severe Russian novelist

giving me really poor lines
a Dostoevsky life

this piece here
being pretty prime example

poem, if that’s what
you can call it
falling
quite by the wayside

and me
wandering through life
seemingly without an arc
let alone
driven by quest, on
pilgrimage

following
the flow (if flow it is) of
words
wherever they go,
wherever they take me

with what false promise,
fatal lure
ot gnosis, wisdom.
sublimation

revelation
that I am no one’s fool,
no one’s text,
no one’s flawed or
anti-
hero, character-whatever

puppet told
to prance
and then put back
in the box