The bum-writer soaked his cigarettes
lit fires for mangy strays.
He loaded up his ink
as if possessed,
wandered days through burning streets,
exhaled the smoke of Passion & Fear,
wrote the poem which you see here.
The bum-writer peddled jokester-iron,
sniffed the Heavenly Dew.
He focused down within the frame
a furtive attribute,
aligned spectometer & flame,
wrote the poem…
and never was the same.
The bum-writer took a dose
of the drug/elixir
he held close…
found home in the eye of a hurricane.