Every Sonnet is About Its Poet [January 27th | 27/365]

I chase the poets into the desert
Hunting scribbles that mean nothing and something perhaps
Demanding that someone admit that he or she held the implement
That marked the lines I follow

I read the way a phrenologist feels bumps
The way an astrologer looks at the night sky
A schizophrenic sees everything
Seeking the personal in randomness

I turn dead poets into members of my hoodlum gang
Go to parties with people I only know as collections of words
Hike in pastoral poems and unique takes on the Arcadian myth
And ignore how a page is a two dimensional surface

I start every verse I write with I
As if you could find me in my poems