(no subject)

[riotheclown]

Hoarding Poetry

Where do we put the poems

As hard as stones and as fragile as robin's eggs?

Do we nestle them in skulls

Laid in tidy rows on shelves

or do we push them

With bulldozers

Into mass graves?

 

Do we wrap them lovingly in cotton and hide them beneath the floor?

 Or

Do we

lean from our balconies as Rome burns

 And toss them into the arms of strangers?

 

Do we give them away with sex?

allow any act and

ask only that

our audience refrain from cumming

until we are done?

 

And all the poems still being written?

shitting like dust mites under the furniture,

Nawing like rats in the middle ages,

Dealing Like brokers on Bay Street,

Growing like multiple embrios

in industrious wombs,

What do we do with them?

  

Waiting in a bus shack I was bit on the nose by a haiku.

The poet from whom it wafted was sleeping like a fawn in the woods.

It was perfect.

Author's note: I woke up this morning with the question: "What do we do with all the poems?"  When I go through a period as I have been of being disconnected from my own thoughts and feelings because of a barrier of depression things slip through into dreams.

I do believe there is an underlying benevolence to life, in all its forms , but I think as humans we are saddly aware and simultaneous disabled by our condition as humans to live within it.  We collect instead artifacts and hobble together words to try to contain it. 

But poetry is supposed to wake us up. It is not pretty.  It is supposed to be too beautiful and too ugly to bare, like we are, like our history, like our imaginations.