Pressing keys, moving
pointers, the poet paints and plays,
he thinks things through.
It doesn’t mean
he grasps reality,
it means something else.
It’s true; he’s a failure in
business.
He draws badly, too, and sometimes he composes edgy songs (that suck)
on a guitar.
And all the mediocre photos in the world--the ones he takes with
his iPad--are no true penance.
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