Froggacuda's Weblog

and when I sit and think,
sometimes,
I write pure gibberish
about green touseled mountainsides
like dead Japanese poets
bearded and silent,
bending their great ghostly heads
to squint through the clouds
that form their thrones:
they watch my pen move,
my mind clicks across its railroad tracks
past the wooded mountains,
and rising to them momentarily
on the steam of a whistle.