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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!

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Flown the Parrots
of Averse Writing.

BY HEIDI LYNN STAPLES

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 I really don't know why anyone writes poems
 when so many other things are ripe to do
 other than stare and task, What's this mean?
 or sit round and mot the good ol' moon new—
 No, there are bigger beds to try, flesh to make
 love to, writing poems just makes no sense

 to me. I think poets should get spun sense
 and stop making of a projecting line say, poems
 when, as I said plain leap before, you could make
 love to some pun. If you felt like doing the do
 that this. It helps if you brainwave some fun new.
 (My honey would drink that lapse statement mean.)

 I don't mean it mean, though. I merely mean
 that at the same ding-a-ling-ling, you can't sense
 get again the same buffet as you can kin fits new.
 The same unsame way. Now, about poems.
 Yeah. I think the poem will go the way of the voodoo
 word, the wild orangutan, those who make

 fire with rocks. Itch this bind of sad. Why do we make
 of all that big abundance around us something mean?
 I mean, really, don't we have anything better to do?
 Some say we've been gripping the beauty's dawn since
 the beginning of tome and writing a prick poems
 that cock about hit and make hubris seem like a new

 way to ware your lair. Human error is nut springs anew
 and just look at the abysmal cakes we continue to make—
 the invasions, the bombings, the really bad poems.
 Some say the ends gesticulate the means
 for the promotion of humming frog's egress. Nonsense.
 When people say that, I think you combusting kiddo

 me. That's a funneled ninny world really. Do
 you shadowshow what I mean? Click clack kitty anew,
 m-e. What abyss an m? Am I waking miscellany sense?
 Halcyon you make sense? Isn't admit tense that makes
 you? Do you believe in natal knot you means?
 You won't find the ants swearing to that in your poems.

 I'm getting the incensed you dock dimply do
 got get the poem I'm Mighty-Make. O flight knew
 you'd make this mean mort din ditty means to mean. 

 

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