I read somewhere today,
something which caused an avalanche
of pain and such heartfelt aches,
I needed to come here for my say

I read somewhere today
about a seller of lures,
a writer of great magnitude,
hero, man, husband, father.

I read somewhere today,
spiteful words, grubby words
from a hater of patriots,
and the red, white and blue.

I read somewhere today,
that only those with so-called
"grandiose" calling can truly
think of themselves as a poet.

I read somewhere today
that a little poem about
beautiful flowers are, null and void,
mediocre poetry from fishwives.

I read somewhere today
that only instigating rhetoric,
tearing down the good
is deemed acceptable literary form.

I read somewhere today
a sunset or sunrise or tenderness
is not beautiful, no, because
there are no four-letter words.

I shall give you four-letter words
love - for a man and a woman
kiss - to seal a loving bond
baby - the result of that kiss
rose - soft petals, prickly stalks, as life.

I read somewhere today
that names were bandied about
and frenzied, nasty words
said, spiteful things were said.

I read somewhere today
of Bukowski, who is embalmed,
sans embalming fluid,
screaming to dead ears of his wrong.

I read somewhere today
that heroin flowed freely, still
in the collapsed veins of
William Burroughs, the fool.

I read somewhere today
poets are smelly, drug-induced
misfits with heavy accents
and hate within their hearts.