If I keep writing poems on the train, the forces of literature will judge me as Grabinskiana
At least when America falls, it will be harder for the purgers to liken what I write as Americana
The muse prepares to say goodbye: not even she is immune to today’s unending dysfunction
Is it an AFI-style affliction, or has somebody tampered with the telegraph line of our psychic conjunction?
Was she a Californian with flowers in her hair that, upon my absence, started to wilt?
The drought started around the time I left: on top of a recipe for hate we now have a recipe for guilt
Art can no longer save my state from its imminent demise, but neither now will it save me
Once the Muse casts me loose, it’s only a matter of time before a force of darkness slays me.
Felix Purat 