I give you no opportunity
to commune with me on any level
deeper than the thick
congealing blood in my mouth
You are asking me
leaning over my shoulder
the soft sacred scent of lavender
assailing
how I can write poetry
when I will not allow an emotion
to come within hailing distance
A ship
far out to sea
swaying gently on a
soulless swell
How can I explain?
Poems are runes
hieroglyphs
still warm with the chant of ancient priests
glowing deep in the depths
of our bellies
They are sustenance
and famine
to leave us
sated and starving everyday
and everyday
is another search
another projection of purest intention
Another sad and sorry tale
never mentioned in pleasant conversation
but running
an undercurrent tugging at the legs of our jeans
drawing us toward a vortex of thought made physical
The words are older than our forefathers
longer than their straggling beards
deeper than the bass timbre of their
remember voices
They call forth
all the essence of humanity
in shining perfection
and recollections of
shame and dismay
And they taste
of copper
as the heave themselves from my stomach
to land
flopping and stumbling
onto the page
With gentle care
I will teach them to speak
train each sentence
in the vagaries of nuance
I will give them
the internal rhythm
A breath of life
the in
the ex
and they will calm
beneath my ministrations
respond to my measure tone
and slowly give us
the next chapter
of tomorrows to come
You will turn away
a reflection of my grim countenance
from another explanation
not given
