Despite all of my binary tantrums,
cussin’ “da mainstream”, burning any bridge
there may be to the wine and cheese sanctum;

I still feel spoiled rotten and privileged
when turning Joe Public’s everyday spiel
into a poem, or when on a stage

of an out of town arts centre, to feel
the spark of life within the spoken lines,
the way they ride the slipstream vapour trail

to spill through the ear’s coils into the brains
of listeners. Whatever their reaction,
the poem lives, not as an inky page

nor performance. It lives as a connection.


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