the-third-of-three-of-thee queries,
ask this poet anything variety pack,
3 permission-granted non-deniable answers,
though somewhat unsurprisingly,
the demands are the common deeper commonality,
yet finds the poet
flat footed, tongue raveled, searching
repeatedly for le mot juste, answers he doesnāt prefer to task,
by asking himself ever
directly
fingers and tips knotted,
their cooperative sensation severed,
unprepared to answer
deferring, with a weakish,
āitās buried in plain sight in the
thousand + poem answers resting here
for a someday funeral oratory anticipatoryā
all the tired, tried and refried and endless recycled responsa tossed into a barrel of formaldehyde;
in dissolution, perhaps the solution?
numerous are my recorded ādialogues,ā
verbal battles with spirit authorities,
plenty of cursing and finger pointing
and not of the Sistine Chapel variety;
mutual forgiveness for human and supremeĀ Ā errors,
not always, hardly ever,
on the tabula rasa menu
but you think
a principle, responsum est constituta
(from the principal, the answer can be derived)
therefore, yes, he must be...
but
the poet replies faith in what,
meaning he has the surety of none
then!
the phone rings and the poem begins:
in a voice of heretofore unknown register,
<ā¢>
āI am the highest authority
none greater
I am but and only the first creator;
my touch operates at the spiderweb level,
the muse of muses,
present in the first grazing garden of lips,
the cacophony clarity of the avians swapping stories
in the early morn,
my worldwide alarm clock,
the wafted word,
breeze born when any poet stumbles on what comes next,
I am scented cherry blossoms, the breath in the iris newly come, and quickly gone,
the spiders web
where there yesterday there was none,
I am the first poem,
and will be the last
the new skin neath the scab,
the cooing of a grandchild that
sun meltsĀ Ā hardy men grizzly who think
there is nothing new under the sun
the counter of every wave that shushes, requesting global silence,
even when no human present to applaud
I am the smile upon the surgeon exiting
the operating room,
his right hand of confidence,
the arm draped upon a strangers shoulder
who weeps unabashedly for
undisclosed reasons that do not matter
you ask the poet
is he a man of faith
a bewildering query that obtains
diffident daily responsa, for the very question
is an ever changing variable
easy come and easy go
for what is faith but a traveling circus,
a summer day, forgot as it melds with next,
faith in?
me? hardly...
who could sustain a belief in the invisible hand that is the breeze between blades of grasses where the snowflakes will later accumulate as if nesting
even faith in himself
is a passing cloud,
a short term rental
but in that instance
he is faithful personified
for he ādiscoveredā
the next word to close and complete,
the poem that did not exist prior
thus faith stored and restored
he believes once more if but a seconds-long knowledge
and thus he is not solved or dissolved
he is resolved
the closest a poet can believed to be a
believerā