blessed are the nights,
when, not a single word
of worth comes to mind...
that revelatory stare
into a blank page...
when the page reads
me, as if writing itself
in the ink from the feast
of Belshezar...
invisible yet
somehow there...
such nights,
and all the day's conclusions
come begging for
the noose of snooze,
hanging from
the curvature of a scythe
moon...
and the promise of tomorrow,
bound to refreshing
a grsndmother's kitchen,
hiding the faded nectarine,
with lemon peel...
because, just sometimes...
adding more to the already
congested rubick narrative
and the debilitating insomnia...
fails spectacularly...
nights when
nothing spectacular happens...
a ticking clock,
a tap dancing drop after
drop of waer from a water-tap...
a hushed radio...
and the thought,
that somewhere,
elsewhere, anywhere but here,
people are busy living lives,
complicated lives,
busy lives, exhausting lives...
ratty lives...
scaremongering
and scapegoating each other,
faking gods, killing gods
and in the names of
other, more earthly deities
doing what people
do best...
which is:
being unable to sit still...
it becomes comforting,
to have so many people
do so many things,
esp. those people
who demand that life
be drama...
in the *****
of theatre's patron saints,
whether Judas, or Brutus...
who somehow, managed
to climb out of the king's mouth...
closer to "home"
it would seem that you can
forgive a ****** poem
by someone well read...
but a poem in cuffs
of a rawness...
the standing naked
effigy by concensus
of mere literacy?
a question not worth
asking, let alone answering...
a tsunami of youth
and the drowning sound
of gurgling middle-men...
it must be blinding,
to be surrounded by nothing
other than compliments...
with no firm reaction
that can detach you from
writing to a shadow,
as if, standing on sand...
how can people
allow let alone stand
this insidious flattery?
never mind...
tomorrow,
and refreshing a grandmother's
kitchen.
