I deleted them because you all were arguing with each other about something that had nothing to do with the poem.

Fine, but I wish you had not removed my comment.

DOVINA: I could, and I could disqualify you because of them. But it would make no more sense than your trumping disqusalifications. Will you repeat after me: "I could stand up now if I tried, but I choose not to try."? I never trust someone who knows - Dovina

You may prefer it, but my image is less haunting. Sorry to disappoint.

first of all, no, my snooze button adds nine minutes to the alarm, so every time i push the snooze, i go back to sleep for nine minutes. as a result, my dream is fragmented... and second, what is that song supposed to mean?

Yeah. Look what they did to poor sweet little innocent Bethy.

Ah, we come the old how do I know your not bullshitting me line. The answer of course is you don't know. For all I know you could be a fat bald indian in prison with his dick in his hand right now, or visa-versa. Actually from now on I would prefer you imagine me as that and that the image haunts you in your dreams.

No, he kept count by the song the little girls sang in the background. "One, two, Freddy's coming for you. Three, four, better lock the door..."

No I really think this does for timid poets what the Heimlich maneuver did for choke victims.

Since you're asking the questions and can adjust the answers, sure, why not.

A break in rhythm happens in a conversation or in a poem when I come to a place of such emotion or uncontrol that something in me wants to come out, but I grasp it in my throat. There I hold it for critical moment, trying to decide whether “to give” it sound would say the thing that wants to come out or whether reason will prevail and “give” the sound the mask I wish it to wear. Thanks for your comment.

Do I detect a note of sarcasm? If so, good. Subtle sarcasm is good for the soul. As for those afraid to post their stuff, consider this: I don’t undertake only those tasks at which I believe I will shine. Such fear-based reticence would limit my play and exposure to others’ play in a child’s game aimed at education. I risk encountering ridicule, and even welcome it sometimes, for the possibility of a shining insight. It’s hard to be sworn at or likened to all manner of disgusting things, but as long as sun glimmers from that pool of urine, I’ll endure the stench. Or as a lost friend once said, “Poemranker is a great resource. It is like a huge thrift shop or, even better, a gigantic landfill. If you don't mind getting dirty, there are many precious things to be found under some especially slimy, fecally covered toilet seat or unwashed, skidmarked underwear.” I’m getting all mushy and teary-eyed now.