The story is never written,
A narrative never told.
          The old lined paper
                 Kempt by metal fingers,
A face wrinkled with use;
        Scarred-- with gray tributes,
Slashed with gaudy limelight.
Serrations of effect,
          Course by course
Delineation of subjects.
       180 men strong -
standing at attention.
Hundreds of guns--
               Straight and narrow:
       Waiting for the charge,
Muzzle-flash discharge.
Three identical wounds,
                  Inflicted on the men;
                  Identity branded skin.

Poetry….
         The ambition
of lines—
                     Shouting
         At one another—
         And the hand,
                     Betrays previous musings
Sidestepping reality
         By reflecting honesty.
Poetry….
         The hope
of stanzas—
                     Tangling
         Two-left-feet—
         And the pattern,
                     Lingers on the rhyme
A minute too long…
         A beat behind.
Poetry….
         The voice
of words—
                     Whispering
         The secret stories—
         And the lies,
                     Decide the storyline
A certain turn…
         Unforeseen negotiation.

Folded and unfolded,
Until the creases
Are old friends,
Lines faded,
To indecipherable smudges.
Rhymes familiar,
Sentences similar.

Line for line,
Word for word,
Name to name.

The weight of your memory
Sits in my back pocket
Like a signature hangs on
The end of a dotted line
With the scent of finality
Arranging it.

Cursor jumping on the page,
Rage with interest—fidgeting,
Waiting for words
To fall into place.

Each syllable
Clamoring for attention,
Jostling, bumping into one another.

Wringing out words,
Winding down the page.

Playing at this empty calm,
Faking Simplicity.

Deepening hysteria,
Mesmerizing calamity,
Chaos abreast.

Hurricane destruction,
Twister tearing down,
But fake calm anyway.

Busy without end,
Needless activity that
Has no bounds.
False actions
So incapsalated with.
Fretting about my life--
An unanimated robot.
Chained to the illusion
Of fervid productivity.
Things to do, things to do
Never a minute, never an hour.
Constant motion--
Only smoke and mirrors.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.

Lost,
Forgotten in time,
Whipping around:
Snow in a blizzard.

Stinging my cheeks,
Blistering my mind,
Flying by, melted
Soon.