where the writers are
Selective Digression

Only the hollow halls sustain me,
keep me from going mad in front of
all the mannequins stored snugly,
almost smugly, within the crevices
of the mind I call my own.

Like the road not taken (Frost)
I have many; most are rotting, scary
jaunts that carry the visitor
over decrepit wooden bridges, each
with boards absent, grimacing like hoary hags.

But yet, in these halls infernal and morose
a transfinite creativity occurs...the perversely
mundane accosted, neurons fire unrestrained
loosing the bonds of conventionality
and allowing me to function au natural.

The mannequins, ever the spoilers,
pitch and yaw in unison, their shorn heads,
bearing bar codes and confined modes of thinking,
try to entice me from my journey...
"Come join us!" they wail, waving flags
of conformity and twisted righteousness

they are nothing more
-- nothing less
than sick executioners of artistry.