To imagine the imagination Is to be drawn into the fire For those Creative experience’s Are hard wired
Enchanted escalade Up the mountain of archetypes There your gift of expression widens In a poetic array of wonder Together WE Rain down on the weary world And a spark of light so blindingly bright Brings sight to the busy ants
The hole dug today Was just for tonight Dear rabbits it’s time to dig another one!
“Run, rabbit run Dig that hole, forget the sun And when at last the work is done Don’t sit down, it’s time to dig another one For long you live and high you fly But only if you ride the tide And balanced on the biggest wave You race towards an early grave…” — Pink Floyd, “Breathe”
I. The Beginning In September she gave you a name That came with weights and burdens To break into. Straightforwardly, you marched them. As if it were the only thing to do.
II. The Middle Four miles beyond the confines, You left in the morning to gather the water. I was told somewhere along the way you Fell in love with the aftermath of a line, And began a new life in its crooked symmetry.
III. The End I don’t know if she hoped for a life of grace, or love, mercy, or passion. Regardless, it is all ok somehow. There is something to knowing that, when it is over, we may go forward And start afresh in the broken ranks.
Just seconds before the door slammed, I truly thought I'd appreciate quiet.
But now the empty air constructs barriers so claustrophobic that my limbs won't twitch -
A single carpenter ant skitters across the floor before my grass-stained mesh sneaker, as if called from the slimy couch shadows on cue.
And then another.
(Note: The poet is self-conscious enough that he needs to say : "The following should be horrible writing, but after hours of thought I couldn't think of a better phrase to express our ill-fated protagonists' malice towards these insectile invaders than": )
I hate them.
I told (The One Who Escapes) on Monday that I'd handle the infestation.
Every time I saw an ant crawling after that- I felt a swarm of mandibles tear at my brain tissue
and a burning in my intestines courtesy of burrowing.
A feeling that's amplified ad nauseam by current cacophonous quiet.
(The One Who Escapes) bursts back through the door, gasping for breath and blabbering with darting eyes about: