Everyone gathers to hear the poets preen
on the source of inspiration:
how the athletes ran into
glass cases;
how the singer overcame
dead man’s notes;
how the clown croaked
on a moped’s swerving laughter;
how the skin of truth
peeled from our bones
as the noise of the streets
drowned our jail cell march.
Huddled over coffee and secrets
we agree only those without
stand alone.
That their haikus
lack the character
of conviction.
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The Waking Den 