Cheesecake

Grub worms after a rain

Invading my garage

And he who knows himself

To be a murderer – 

This is how my 

Morning’s going today.

Truth be known this is how

My mornings go every day.

It’s not always grub worms

And it’s not every day

A murderer.

Some days it’s cheesecake

And pedophiles; 

Some days it’s bicycle chains

And rapists.

If you’ve ever had your garage

Invaded by cheesecake

Or scrambled eggs,

Bicycle chains or grub

Worms, you will know

Of what I speak.

It’s not often enough anymore

That I get the Trout Quintet.

Every line here is a code, 

A simulacrum to a memory

Or to a future.

That disclosure alone should make this

Unreadable to any but the poet

Who will forget what everything

Meant tomorrow and later

Will be forced to explain

At questions and answers,

Seminars and lectures

What exactly, precisely,

Was cheesecake supposed to mean.

Who knows already, and it’s certain

Not to be important,

Not after the public takes it,

Not after its minority placement

At the beginning of third-rate verse

Is dissected,

Not after the psychologists get hold of it,

Not after the marxo-feminists take it

As a battlecry in the halls of academy,

Pointing out its stance as a phallocentric

Commentary of the body feminine,

Not after it is woefully anthologized

In the various “Worst Poetry” tomes

For the year,

For the decade,

For the century, millennium,

Etc.,

And not after you read it

And decide “Well, what the hell

Was that all about?”

It goes like that with symbolism

Sometimes:  we think we are

Protected from our demons,

We think we rise above,

We look at our level of self-control

And we imagine silvered lakes

Of calm and peaceful placidity,

Of strolls through enchanted woods

And dryads singing us to sleep

At night on our pillows.

For pillows, read confusion;

Where lakes, imagine pots of fire;

For enchanted woods, substitute

brambles and briars;

Where dryads, picture love.

You will have to supply your own

Analogy for grub worms

And cheesecake, for bicycle

Chains, scrambled eggs

And executed tyrants.

Remember that you think

That we rise above, that we

See the big picture, that we

Know our hearts to be

Stalwart, true and hardy.

Remember this with every

Piece of cake

You slice, gnash and swallow,

Every piece, every slash

Every noose of filling

Embedded with the worms and chains

Of what you do not want

To know.

© 2006/12 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved