the poem started with the word
the
it wasn't a good
the;
it didn't sit on the page right
like a head with a bad perm
another poem started with the word
the

the the
had so much integrity;
it floated on the page like a sun drenched cathedral

i can only surmise the magic of a poem has in it the ineffable soul
of the writer
are the good writers nonchalant
talent dripping
or are they secretly fucking
their the's

sucking on
the the's
making them gleam
glowing hard
polishing them with a spit shine
so it sits on the page
with a sense of superiority

some poems are nothing but arm pit stains
no matter how good they are
black listed from love

others
stratospheric
sky-blue uniforms
with bright yellow kerchief's
you cant take your eyes from

they are
the
crowning glory

the
the
in the
the

God of the
the's
peaked like a maraschino
with pastel and golden sprinkles
on a ball
of vanilla

a the
like a high end Mercedes
with the scent of lavender
and the magnitude of the
Botafumeiro

a
the
to kill for