This is not the
poem
in the finalities of endings
forever trapped
haphazardly tossed
in a simple single glance
that imagined itself to be
in the process
in the throats of the believers
that will breathe fire
on the metaphysical implications
tossed
on the eye haphazardly
of repetition
on the metaphysical implications
that must be read to be forgot or
misregarded
that will give to our collective
experiences
that glide over the surface
with the jazz rhythm
what is wrong
between what is right
and no hosannas
no tribulation
an eye might catch
the single simple glance
in repose
that finds no comfort
about lonesome rock climbing
and diminutions
and all omissions
that do not count their blackbirds
and black olives
that cartwheel their way into your
heart
that refutes all other confessions
when caught in the act
if apt and precarious
the psychological breaks
that will parse
driven loonshit
pole dotting the wind
bent light, telephone or utility
speaking
technically
about name-checking the dead
that play word association games
at the heart of language impotence
this is not the poem.
This is the poem
between precarious and precocious
that will perform miracles
becoming a tree
haphazardly
the orange rind
that suffers gladly
the
poem that imitates a poem
that began
in the mouth
of the pelican
losing the poetic impulse
under the sins of the mother
that lingered in the back
to serve a function
under a microscope
‘s form or formalism
that did not get the girl
about the language
that did not win the prize
that imitates a poem
this is the poem.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights
Reserved
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