And Lourd sings it for me,
speaks it in his bee-bop beat,
and neural pop trickeries
wrapped in the thin smoke of his ganja,
surging in the speed that his poetry defines,
wailing with the crescendo of his imagined jazz,
My dark soul, my extreme,
my side away from the sun.



/justifying my attraction to Lourd de Veyra's poetry/
ruth.jacob