I angle for answers with a ballpoint pole --
a practice of patient perseverance --
equipped with the tackle box of my soul,
with gravity’s sinkers, hooks for adherence,
colorful flies and lures of deception,
a bright bob or two to mark my place and,
to scale the catch, the knife of perception.
The net of imagination’s on hand.
Transparent lines baited with instillment
of vague purpose and an illusive dream,
I fish for inspiration’s fulfillment,
toes in the throes of the consciousness stream,
at Chaos Shore on Reality Ledge,
dangling ganglion at the water’s edge.
 
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