Woodberry Poetry Room Daily Poem

get yourself an agent,
grow a beard

take gin in your martini

carry a handgun

Recalled itself to itself, which required a putting back of birds

stitching eggshells, sky-pale, speckled,

grubby with dirt:

On the ground a squirrel streaks across

The past and I have been betrothed since birth. As for the future,

no matter how close I press, elusive, it escapes.

A hyperbolic function cannot reach its asymtope:

less protrusion, less

is greening,

slow-burning, trembling as the wind moves

then break, break, break, break, breaks–

What is the “it” of which I speak?
What is its shape? Does it have a language?

Why does it hurt when it leaves my mouth?

Another thing is:
God only knows
How hard God tried
And tried and tried and tried
To make Godself in God’s image.
But the parts are faulty, incomplete and on back order.

This is my mouthing to the world that never mouthed to me:
No
Thing
Ever not the thing

And I asked it to undress and try to sleep naked all night together,

And got slapped, kicked:

So that never really worked for me, the straight forward way.

A truth rounded up to the nth degree and then
The lights turn off: she’s left the room
tossed unsmiling words–gone in a nod

And Ariel’s, and

ethereals aplenty. When will men like earth

and the elements and not go abroad

for the here is here. Here now,

quick now, always.

THE END | DAILY POEM: April 17, 2009

is poetry,

the action that makes knowing possible,

and the consequence of the action, a growing tree.

no; rather a hackneyed stump with verdant moss

That is what it is, not what I want it to be: