pin oaks tower above the sunbaked sky clouds snag on branches tear apart into shadow-streaked clumps of white they split into patterns of significance like newly bought sheets of satin
on an L-shaped limb i see the face of my muse shredded into strips of suffering her eyes are gone her mouth firmly shut as always the font of inspiration dappled with dry green moss plugged as long as the shreds survive on the sahara-searing wind elongated tattered rising with the currents bounding straight toward poetry's embrace straight toward the infinite void
rimbaud sits at the base of his oak the giant gnarled roots shape an uneasy divot a place to rest he has gagged his muse so no sounds escape her lips silent comme habitude to prompt true poetry first derange the senses poetry sets its own standards raw elegant faithful demonic buried at the base of the titanic oaks
just as for wittgenstein words are not enough for rimbaud they scale the moat of meaning at the top only emptiness a missing moon whereof we cannot speak thereof we must remain silent
rimbaud enfant terrible of paris' literary scene takes aim at his muse fires she falls to the ground permanently mute and he is finished writing forever he abandons her like a faithless lover words taste like sand they are symbols of nothing difficult to chew inadvisable to swallow no nutrition so the poet jilts his vocation traipses off to ethiopia to sell guns to any lowlife buyer who carries cash with poetry exhausted guns make a life of danger adventure worth later losing a leg to bone cancer worth later dying penniless in marseille eager to return to africa to reclaim his primal homeland
at the base of the oaks swaying in the sub-saharan breeze we dig for the muse's buried speech to rimbaud her reprimand and prophesy that words are only symbols of breath no one can define them they stand for everything else they inhale experience exhale the semblance of art senses do not remain deranged but come to them- selves with desire what is a leg a life a legacy of modernism what a gun holstered in the french-african sun shining into the open wound of the future which no poet can wrestle to the ground shaded by titanic oaks towering above the sky powerful yet quiet as a muse