Sunday, August 19, 2007

Il Sommo Poeta

If you haven’t, well should you?
Is there a clamor to be held aloft on shoulders,
Hoisted in the depths of a protected painting,
Protected by time, for once old enough then beyond reproach.
I’d rather not be protected by history.
I’d rather not be protected by anything that will become me.
I’m no entry in a half-assed history book.
No surface disturbing biography,
That enlightens like shadows in footprints on the moon.

A soul wind blows captured shod-song
And personal whispers,
Answered and unanswered prayers alike,
Animals slipping on loose rocks,
The silence of the lover leaving and not looking back,
The waterfall roar shooting barrel-riding thrill-seekers over her edge,
And someone saying “it’s time for you to leave” to someone already gone,
And the whimpers of terrified little ones.
The soul wind blew these all into hurricanes and typhoons.

Il Sommo Poeta casts stepping stones for us to follow into an abyss.
You can’t be as good as him or them,
You followed the stones too.

Ill poet interlude:

Trap me in prestige,
Wrap me in a blanket grown cold from the last who used it.

Whether I asked for it or not is immaterial.

Once I wanted to be a big word.
Then a small word.
Then a period at the end of a sentence
Then a period piece at the end of a period
Then timeless
Then nothing

End Interlude.

She vibrates elegance and obscurity into air where vibrations have been stilled,
But can return the room to an absolute,
Shalom, young angel.

Shalom held on high at the highest point in this natural world.
Shalom held on high at the highest point in the next world.
Shalom held on high at the pointed shoes of the lowest point of Death Valley.
And no wonder that is a place in America close to the far coast.

And hold on to the scratched patches of green,
I will unbutton my shirt to the bottommost button
And I will walk toward the end of [unnamed] street
And I will take no notice of people pondering aloud
About why I’m so indecisive about my body-décor.

When in reality, I hopes I sinks to the bottom of the Marianas Trench,
You’re there to remind me that it has already happened,
And at the whims of the current I am snagged on a cliff
Suspended, weightless as it were, in the dark,
Looking up forever and downward forever,
Wondering if a ship on her Maiden Voyage will come tumbling through the brine,
And if she will be close enough for me to grab of her wreckage.

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