No one will ever paint or saint me, so
I’ll live as freely as I wish without
a fear that haughty pundits might bestow
denunciations that could carry clout.
As Nobody-who-are-you, I celebrate
(s)elf-governance and nonalignment, while
adhering now and then to rules first-rate––
the sonnet’s meter, rhyme and form and style
(Shakespearean, Spenserian, Petrarchan).
My(s)elf, unduly impish, I’m inclined
towards novelty and innovation, hearken
to impertinence and daring, mastermind,
may undermine whatever ancient masters
deemed as great and matchless. My disasters(?)
. . . sometimes result in madcap fifteen-liners.
