It is not all about the long (form) poem,
or the short (form) poem that
captivates the reader to go on,
but form, oh form! It must be solid-set-and square-
there it is identifiable in space,
man-woman-yin-yang,
it must lie there
flat and
come around the full circle of Oh, I see,
and be intriguing, as eyes tend to be drawn
to bare bellies showing
the sex
it becomes impossible to look away, rude
to rend attention from the white scene that unfolds
sheets,
we tend to go too far in our search for likeness
in passing, we come upon the sight of a crash-
rollover and rubbernecking, our prying eyes seek
identification (relationship) of bodies,
make and model,
fault and genre
or scheme
or theme
(the way we drive).
The way
we seek familiarity in reflective surfaces projected
outward from flat atoms that cling together making a solid
point
reflective and with water
like cement, belly flops
that sting and leave a body red
scared us straight.
I see me
Cadence reminded the reader that the
human body and its homeo-static form,
feels it is not wise to slip into
a semi-permeability-stage-phase-
that would be weakness,
or prose
in words of erosion which sink quite naturally,
predictably.
Under pressure diamonds are made
by poets sitting on ideas
awaiting the train of thought,
engineering the license to use lines
at unsafe speeds
with glaring lights, blaring horn
blowing by
en route thru
to
the scene.
The limp body becomes
ejected
and stains the concrete
longer than rubber-
streaks.
Anybody can learn to drive
a point
Home
(some are more [w]reckless than others)
and the point Being
only the poet knows where they are going (if they do)
it doesn't help.
Detours and congestion both seem inevitable.
There is no way around
the good poem.
It just lies
there
(as in Found)
or flies away
on an impulse, taking the words with him wherever he goes,
traveling light
never arrives.
Image of starlings in flight at sunset taken February 2006, By Tommy Hansen.B.A.C. at da.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons.
