a strange spiraling
of works that
prowled and picked over
by hurried lazy eyes
losing meaning, my poems,
like a bike tire
like a sleek balloon
gone sad and pudgy
from too many bon-bons.
See, I write them
in such a way that
it is the reader plugging
that births that meaning
each one is pregnant with…
and the reader midwifes their
own “poem” in the interaction.
but I look at poems now…
living creatures that slid
into this world and onto the page
in my tears of all stripes and moods…
born of water and Spirit…
and they just seem silly, like debris
in maelstrom currents mixing with cast off Micky D wrappers
and the latest pop culture Rapper
hanging in the wastelands with the other vultures.
it is stunning, really…that they really
do not matter to anyone like they do to me…
these lil “Tardises” of words…they are just…
forlorn, they are petals after they have been
trod on by the wedding party and the departing guests
and now are at best mere curiosities better suited
for Ripley’s Believe It Or Not
instead of Lord I believe help me in my unbelief.
I think I wept
for two days
as it shouldered
its way in and it left me
shaking and trembling and speechless.
I think I literally babbled as I wrote.
(Sometimes I do that when I get hit
with Creative Fire…I just babble
without words because the
UUUNNNGGGHHH of creating is too
And then I see the latest
hater-aide clever meme
get hit millions of times
as everyone goes
and pours another cup of coffee
(one more cup of coffee before I go)
and snaps their fingers where
the newspaper used to live and
pulls up their light-stained cheeks
to the latest send up to entertainment.
And this compulsion to share…
this fucking HOPE that someday
someone would read them
from the inside out
and have their OWN babbling
and the words would snap to,
alive and burning and twine
into the human being’s
very own unique living poetry
just for them
and them alone.
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