( you know who you are )


pages of poetry scatter absent of direction 'cross the floor,
tiptoe through the abstract path of cool cement and disturbed titles-
meditating and focused hard on every endeavor of ball and heal
not to summon the demons between the lines-
i am haunted by words,
scared mindless into repetitions of basic survival methods-
not too lean on the meaning,
not too thick on the flow,
equally structuring the verses to burn.

my eyes seep petals of ink
and you have never seen
the rib torn from my cage,
fractured and shaven
to a perfect fine line-
the weapon of scripture.

i would have named you myth
if not for your undeniable proof-
the smell of ancient tongues
and petrified wisdom
drip from your pores-
red lettering on napkins,
the obituaries of every muse
you've resurrected-
works of genius and artistic flaw,
you had a name for every slanted ' i '
and misprinted brush stroke of faith.

leaping and jumping in your madness,
the whole world is mad-
they all want to savor your flavor
and status themselves along with us-
'the mad poets, generation of asylum'

and while we crush stars for sabbath day kicks
they're still in the shadows interpreting the crickets-
they hear the chaos of thunder we defined as God's whisper,
who will name these nights after our hours?
and now the beginning of the first half of a new century-
more time and we're passing by without ironing out the mended edges or
dotting the eyes
of this uneven circle we're spinning,
the imbalanced wash cycle says it's never going to end and we're
never going to be clean-
it revolves around our laundry
and we'll never turn in the same awkward unison as the rest of the
hungry world.

your prisms dilate and focus hard on solving the symbols of gene and divine
chalk-

 
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