"He who wanders is not always lost"
In memory of Mumbling MaxSpeaking in staccato crumbles
that fell from his mouth unvarnished and plain,
Mumbling Max told rambling stories
wrapped in tissued memories .
Using words he'd just invented
he spun them like a centrifuge
in seamless dervish repetition
hoping to find that pearl of truth
That conjured up names once remembered
and places that perhaps he'd been
He raised his warm beer to salute me
and shook my hand until it hurt.
Poetry by Hans Bump
Read 712 times
Written on 2011-07-22 at 05:42
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