Because I looove sonnets.

Technically, the sonnet is an important part of literally heritage.  And because I love them so much, I took the form and absolutely butchered it to my great chagrin.  Don’t get me started on haikus…  Anyway, here’s a poem.


I, key: a passage to my homeland, I
Speak a language learned att säga “hur mår du?
Röser är röda”
and “your eyes are blue.” –
Säger de i Sverige: tjejer look you in the eye;

My other, from the range, opens freely
Amusement to life’s sublime and absurd:
Small town, get outta town – find an ear, ideally –
Kentucky brews bourbon. And that’s the word.

I keep time precise – on all hours intent,
Keep my roots deep with intense honoring
Of inspiration, they deserve it: Kent.
Black hillbilly history takes wing, sings:

Both merge in literary ejaculate,
And if I’m lucky: in words and wit.



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