what an audacious title!
she squealed, condignly
to speak of the soul, and more,
to enter the holy land
of priests, poets, seers,
and carnies
to discover the synovial moan
between one's craggy crafted countenance
and the invisible breath of god
to find a place, backwards in time
that may lend itself to rhythm and rhyme
but will never settle silently on the page
between the soul and the façade,
the mud in which we are stuck,
a bonded place, in a travesty of space
where a voice cries for help
yet is never heard
*title is a paraphrase of something Truman Capote said--the poem itself is a departure for me; I rarely speak of the soul or other such abstractions directly, but I had writers block and this was all that came out
