Since Mohamed Alithen Cassius Clayannounced that he had written The worlds shortest poem, I have known that I would be a poet. ME? WHEE! His triumphant proclamation evoking shivers within my troubled teenaged identity, for I reasoned in rhyme.
Everyday, hundreds-of-thousands of seemingly sane souls satisfy some innate need to bare their concealed character via atrocious alliteration or in delusional doggerel. As in Kris Kristoffersons early works, the marvelous magic masquerades within sweet musical lyrics, providing us with eternal material transcending generational barriers.
Even if none but we are ever allowed to examine our hidden essence, an inner longing is unleashedonly to be squishedshould we presume to be published.
In1978, I self-published my first poetry book, Beacon, to an enthusiastic reception of some uninformed who didnt realize, fearing rejection, I had never submitted my musings to somber publishers. After all, Rod McKuen, suffering countless rejections, had self-published. And he was saidat that timeto be, The worlds most widely read poet.
To the accolade of local yokel fans, the following year, I followed up with Imperfections,...
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