the poet

For all these years,

Thin like organdy,

I’ve wandered under

Some sickly guise

Some sickly guise

That I hailed as an apex of truth

Truth I had been so thirsty and sluttish for

I drove my shiny car on a highway

To any terminus that glittered

In the




But behind the wheel

Every turn I made

Was late

Every look to the side

Was vain

Every inch I advanced

I was advancing towards a place

That was hauntingly hollow

That was glittering like some

Lusty nirvana,

Red hot,

Cherry red in its composure


On bright pages

I spat words

Towering upon each other

Like wobbly edifices,



Built in vain,

Built for sickly show


I gazed at the edifices

With hushed religious reverence

I stared up in terrestrial submission

And lingered around,

Never daring to step inside

To face the other face

In its incubation of horrendous truth


Now I’ve heard the silver yells

I’ve felt the edifices’ silver magnet

Reeling me in with steel fingers


Now I step inside my wobbly edifices

I gaze at pictures on the dusty walls,

Their subjects wilting like the air inside


Now I peel out in my car,

Smothering the gas with brazen, blind composure

The tires lurch toward a place of darkness

Because my old glittering nirvana

Existed only between lines

Of wobbly poetry,

Hiding in bastard foolery

From the place

I swerve toward



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