hobo

I want to share a poem my sister wrote. She’s the woman who inspired my poem Mother of Squalor. With all its bizarre grammar and madness it is the truest thing thing I’ve read in awhile, with her in mind, and her permission, hobo – hobo im a hobo a hobo and im doing it…

And should not be at the beginning of this sentence.

I don’t know what the key to this whole writing thing is. I’ve spent the last fifteen years trying to find out. I must have read fifty books on the subject. I think maybe its clarity. So much writing is just filler, or confusing sentence structures. It becomes a kind of music. I know I…