Though there are no rules, there is a certain way poetry must be written. (Does not depend how you define I S) The moon is not the moon, stars are not stars; and thee earth is but a platform for our observation (of dose rules). So what do we see? We can see that some are predestined to be poets and to sit on lonely hills and notice a universe that obeys laws and turns it’s self through the cosmos on a definite timetable – like clockwork – and only da muse knows dat rules were made ta be evaded, altered, busted-open, et cetra, etc..by da likes of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, da ‘T.S.’, and udder ‘privilegees’, milkin’ it (in the poets’ Hall of Thee Immortals). The muse conveys to the doggerelist he is the E-special one, set apart from other creatures of his kind for a special job to do that only he can perform..especially for such tasks he alone is uniquely qualified, eh! or set apart. Who else is there in all the planet and all the poet-mansions spread around that can make a moon into a mole-hill, captured in the glimmer of one squinty eyeball poking up out of the dirt reflecting the Sun’s return? or liken night skies to the broken-down, rusting roof of a miner’s shack hastily thrown up in shadows of golden, lonesome hills, straddling shores of an erstwhile lake..dry like my prose (I suppose) ‘her’ pinprick light leaks penetrating (s h e being the stressed metal roof) her pinprick light-leaks..poking, shall we say? SHAFT’S of brilliance down in his disheveled study, and sprinkling da sparkly light-beams and other pronoun’s elsewhere, anywhere, stunning! in passing, his progress down-the-hall to the bathroom for his morning constitutional, –thee Constitutional..ridden by who! “Whom??” said the owl from rafters too wise (grammatically speaking) to comment on, or to dissect ANY of the foregoing as he absently prunes himself working his head a-round, and around under his wing’s wingpit; and prunes of morning, doing their usual work on the poet’s digestive tracts, there, buoying-up the tummy’s spongilicious floor, and freeing him from remnants of a past repast of the past, –passing, with a flush! through the plumbing pipes, and all (one can hope) &change the waste for fresh nutritional intake, replacing that stuffy plugged-up feeling with a newfound sense of freedom..and relief! unburdening our selves, our bodies/ARE BODY’S, AERSELF’s, “Arf! arf!” of what has been, etc., –moody, bloody, morose, but! chuckliing inwardly at the jobs assigned ordinary mortals..a glum, grey citizenry of TV-watchers and monitors foreconcluded to vote in elections, which – we are assured – will change the course of thee history; and just might,MIGHT!justify the means to an end, –end of all de mean poets! here on our little dusty speck of dirt hung carefully on dis chimerical chimney of a so-called universe..with care! stalking our chances of survival, on tippy-toes, in the face of a (________) sun giving us all our renewable, sustainable, diversely energetic (+inclusive), ahh! (=fair.share,social!justice/whatever) stuck on a insular recyclable plasticine dead spot on the infinitely redundant circuit-board of space’s giant vacuum-cleaner in space, a KIRBY one with an overload re-set button..dere in dat hall closet over dere. Ready to come out yet? out of R closet? in space?? There it is poetry-lovers, poetry without boarders. Plus no rules! are we bored yet, ha-ha. SPACE FOR RENT ~c.