For Mally McFustian (the self-professed poet)

It was her likeness to opaque 

she could not hear the stark differences between 

Voice and God, Cid and William, her own and others.

She thought she was poetic, she was hazy.

There is no great mystery lying in the Milky Way, find another way

to mean something you say. It is people like she 

that claim they think in poetry,

who are killing it-Literally-

making-non-sense and none said a thing,

they all oohed and awed at the silk flowers-

So I chimed in but did not say-

What do you want, a medal for lighting a fire?

Hell fire sparks easier for those who whip out wet matches,

need accelerants and whet whistles with Sulphur sounds,

What the-

What did she just say? Blowing smoke and sourced upwind.

Are you certain that is the right meta-

for your point is dull.

Perhaps hone in on the infinite edge of the rose petal…

Where? Love resides? Could you not find any other name?

It pokes me thorny to read such stretches of imagination that span

Short of any original creation, or enhancement to the existing therein.

Entanglement, she is inclined to throw loops and claim fancy stitch-work,

I am seeewww anapestic. Vast like space,

the space between her ears.

There is a fly in my primordial soup. Like Hamlet, I smell a rat that

binges on stolen cheese, farts and claims he has made new

poetry or silent but thoughtful prose.

She nibbles at my nerves and deserves to be told descriptive decadence

is not originality or insight.  When blurry, when it makes no sense

of any related things, it does not ring pretty and honestly,

is pretty irksome. Obviously, this is not poetic but pathetic and

her-a-tic, the fuse has been lit.

Someone call her on her bull

Painting By L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Woman with Lily) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

using your inside voice

This is my voice.

Listen.

Taste it. Please.

Today it is clearer in black,
but in all honesty, I thought this first in blue,

it is true. I lapis up all that literary lazuli

and it changes when I spit it back out.

Stereo-typed, twice in Dolby.
I hear the crackle, taste the salty pixels,
it can be shocking
to play two songs at once.

Tune it. Tune your tune her to tune her in.
Try to simplify, try to translate
in other terms,
on other channels,

I have tried talking in acrylic, the accent is too thick,
I am past brushing up properly.

Some thoughts are shapeless
and cannot be conveyed

with any sociological accuracy
we can shoot in one direction

and get stabbed in the back.
All along I was here
waving words in poetic privacy

that speak aftertaste

too deep to hear
muffled in print.

Now swallow.


Painting by Pierre Carrier-Belleuse (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Quicksand

Since poetry is up to interpretation, meaning-wise-
how does the poetry reader understand the Poet's intent
with certain-T's like Truth and Tale
divided unevenly...
Mostly, we knew the poet forgets these two
So how does a semblance come together as a sense
of justice, (common sense) or was it just us
who smiled at the cool plums...

Electromagnetism asserts its charge,
Gravity resists a zero,
the Poet's ears are taut
the words that wobble and worry
about none
poetic and pathetically undone
in ink.
Welcome All.
Let that sink in, a lifeline.
Try this barefoot
with a poem,
touch the earth with your toes-
read it again, it will tell you
its potent-ialities
softly, poetry
tart and juicy.



Painting by Ilya Repin, Tolstoy Barefoot, 1901 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.