Inspiration is short-lived, violent. Any obstacle whatsoever upsets it and even silences it. When art is added to lyricism to create poetry, this process does not consist of halting the mad dash of the lyric state to warn it of the stones and barbed-wire fences across the road. Let it stumble, fall, wound itself. Art […]
Madness…..the thing that reaches out and up and through
Blights the mind through the eyes and ears
Wrenching at the orbs washed in the darkness of deep
Introspections that went on too long.
You have propped open the gates of self-learning
So they can never close…. ….self has no meaning now
Madness flows in and is welcomed and temperance
Of that flow is decried; with zealot fervor and narrow inquisitor glare.
Both rope-bound riddle and threadbare philosophy
Clamor in little, dying breaths that they can be solved
Through recursive mapping of impracticable ideals
Which never have suffered reality’s invections.
If the world is truly held on the broad shoulders
Of a titan, then you are the red high heel, the hemp sandal
The pristine boot of justice, stamping on his neck—
So sure, so righteous; until he drops it.
Hold fast now, as it rolls out the door…. .… into the black;
One more orb extinguished.
Remember the old library check out cards
Inserted into their cardboard sleeves
Pasted to the inside covers
Of thick hard-bounds and dingy paper-backs alike?
The librarian’s stamp was a symbol of pride,
Ennobling each pale blue index card.
The page-turner mysteries bore many
As did the well-worn copies of literary classics
Speaking to the reader about the wisdom of their decision,
Testifying to the many satisfied patrons who came before.
“See you have made a fine choice!
All your friends will approve!”
Other books had only a few, infrequent due dates
Scattered memories of being needed.
Small chips and digital scanners
Have replaced the librarian’s ink and stamp
Those precious cards, each book’s own private journal
Are yet another casualty of progress.
Regardless, each book still sits
Tightly wedged between its kin
Waiting, yearning, motives unchanged
Spine creaking and pages crying dustily:
“Pick me! Oh please pick me!”