I need to rediscover the rhythm and beat and flow of my words tap into wild mind and recover the images that exist only in dark shadowy corners one day I will be brave enough to venture in there and reclaim fearlessly those broken words and fit them into liquid sentences without faltering and feel them take form in the molten core of my imagination I will not pause and I will not shade my shy words with the curved shielding palm of punctuation the tyranny of the complete sentence I will allow myself to fall weightlessly into the spasm chasm of effortlessness where rhyming chiming words find each other where you are nothing but a spectator a limber limbed athlete and it may not make sense and simply sound good to a tabla beat beside a sexy guitarist in a red shirt and the disco lights will flash as paragraphs create themselves I will turn composer I will catch the poetry of city chaos in little toy cups and store them and label them and stack them in wooden chests which I will not bury finally I ask what to make of the pungent smell of alcohol and if you dont know the word pungent does it remain the nature of its smell?