Aristotle's Rhetorics slapped me from my word,
called me to my tissue, to my sinew.
The Politics left me cold, blued, and tattoo'd,
a snake in a heart of syntax
holding a flaming sword in a hand
(this snake had a hand, and wings,
and a flowered, knowing wink)
and a scale balanced on the tail,
the words I Love the Rose Marie I Know
writ large
moëbiusly around a circle
that eats its own arrowed end.
I'll not discuss in this forum
my on-again, off-again, on-ibid relations
with the Poetics, those sculpted shards
of umlaut and gravé. This is simple stuff:
an em-dash, an ellipsis,
a colon
for emphasis.
Take soul! brevious, grievous reader,
for we are blinding in for the final landing,
abode of crystal and lender
that will haul our teeth out one by one,
only then allowing us to suckle
at death's nipple. Blue milk for all, and
if you see Rose Marie, please
remember me,
shrunken participle and all.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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