How many scruffy words,
compile on one another–
the ecstasy of forgotten rhythm.
white guys, abandoned
to slur, traversing
the forgotten lawnchairs
of mono-syllabic intrusion
a poem can close itself
for the summer by drying
the umbrella, shaking off
moths, tattered broken vinyl
seals and wrapping it all
into a metaphor–the ‘is’
not ‘like’ absolutely no ‘as’
wink-wink, nudge-nudge.
and we contaminate the page
with noise, the crocus of scratched
linguistic spiral mansions
of sounds
that creak, scratch, and groan.

Todd Johnson
(Unearthed recently in an old journal.  I’m not sure exactly what I was getting at.  Something to do with creating poetry.)