I wanted to write like Shakespeare

But all that came was bathroom stall graffiti.

I'm alright with that.
It's something.

Something left behind as
the caravans cross Mexico
like ants to pirate pies.

And orphaned spies lie flat on their deathbeds
Well gassed by their gods and
countries.

And the iron curtain is hung on our futures
while madchildren with armories
play espionage chess
and knucklebones missiles,
bullies buying all the railroads
and Broadway and
Park
Place.

As the television and
our front rooms blur
and the masses riot for retribution.
A torrid sea of twisted dreams
awash with children's
coffins.

Yet in spite of this
I look around,
and
I
am
satisfied.

Today I made a delicious breakfast
and that was good enough
for
me.