~~~


The Poet, God,
God, The Poet,

smiling beguiling disguising
as old man tailor,
in dusty shop,
well hid neath the arch of well trod
ancient medieval arcade

in modest, peeling letters,
of gold plate,
hawking, hawking,
suits of poems,
made to measure,
cut to the cusps,
so profound unique,
each will be a promise,
modestly guaranteed,
at a price proffered,
profoundly inexpensive,
to be merely,

"only the very, very, very, best of the best"

grasping torn yellow cloth
measuring tape,
the tailor takes your heft,
drawing broad lines,
sketching your pored cells,
measuring your 'made,'
the stuff that you claim
as only your own,

"only the very, very, very, best of the best"

this delivered,
but none of the finished,
fit to the sane, none fit the same,
all off, hanging wrong,
each different, each suit,  each poem,
fitted but still imperfect

angered and human,
de-man-d,  
an explanation,
why each poem bespoke,
speaks in a different tongue,
tongue stained with complaint,
these are missed leads, misleading,
none made to measure

The Poet, God,
God, The Poet

the the tailor
of each and every
misshapenly one-of-us,
condescends to explain
the foolishness of
human shape

my tape, with steady hands,
takes with accuracy,
the who, the way, the which,
of your momentary composition

but who can say with honesty,
what is the best of the best,
accept that flaws are your finery,
and the skin of your fabric
every changing, a peeling changeling,
excited atoms of colliding constancy

there is no 'best of the best'

there is only one standard
of each creature
that can be accurate recorded,
and this poem, I have delivered

give and gave the
'very, very, very'

e-very stitch and syllable,
is a truth, a ver-ity,
unique to the measure of
who you are

but there is no,
'best of the best,'
from this classification,
you, yourself, must
deselect

make no error of compare,
the wrongness of unfair,
crucify not on the altar
of a golden calf made of
erroneous bitter 'betters than'

every suited poem
suits you,
well and proper,
of this I certify,
all a verification
of the
ver-i-fiction
of the

'best of the best'

of who you are,
reflecting your mirrored image,
of who you wished to be
for in every exhaled instance,
in every poem,
is the
'very, very, very'
of you

is not misshapen
perfection?
what could ever be
better than the best
poetic imperfection?