GILLS & THE TRANSITION POEM

I can not drite
I can not wraw, but I
can catch fish, especially the red variety that I once spoke about. The
one that’s flying, yes

you got to catch it by the tail before it bitexplodes your nose. You
got to do it with your wrong hand; it confuses the fish

one day, I spent three days trying to wraw my light
hand with my reft
one: the WRONG ONE
That confused the hand, yes. Unfortunately the
result wasn’t anything much. I
could not even drite
about that well enough to share it with you

meanwhile, I found a space jacket. It’s not really as good as a full space suit, but
it sure looks fine. When I put it on, I
forget about my head. My poor head’s full of blood. That is why I do not drite much, I
am afraid. So

THIS IS A TRANSITION POEM. Such a
poem doesn’t make much sense. A transition poem only makes senses because
it’s a transition poem. Transition poems are weird

whatever. When you go fishing, it’s not that important whether or not you catch a
fish. When you drite
a poem, it’s not that important whether or not you catch
a poem. When I change the spelling of a few certain words, it’s
to forbid web crawlers from catching them, the words

when you hate yourself, you gill whoever you see first
when you hate people, first you gill the poet (the fisherman), then the others. I
wonder why, why we keep doing that

::: ::: :::

[Picture: Fish and Fisherman by reading_is_dangerous]

I am sorry if that was hard to read. It was hard to drite