I’m a raisin-faced rummy in the corner of a room, a vocabulary junkie who’s addicted to the boom; I sit, rhyme, I guarantee: my timing’s fine; my how and why, it’s this and that line of rhythm sublime, abandoned mines, treeless northern climes, it’s the wine from the vine, it's squished and mashed to a superfluous brine; it's the chime and the sigh, the endless nightly whine; it is jai alai cries in the sunny Florida shine, blue-sky divine; it’s my back-and-forth mind, strung out, wound-up in a collection of twine, it’s the knots you find in a neck misaligned; it’s romantic fine-dining-on-a-Saturday-evening ‘just me and the wife’ time—because, can’t you see, it’s mine, all mine, and all good—which is good—because it’s meant to be kind.

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