It Is What It Is
Poetry? Infamy, the last of me,
Simpleton logic in Zen-like trances,
Dances of the mind-ballet,
Steps, hopes, long pregnant stares
Past the rows of chairs into the foyer
Burst through the double door of brain lock habit thought
From not to ought in commercialesque prose.
Repatriate bland commonality
So it sparks energy, heart-life squeezes.
Please the knees of the march men,
The beat song, the sweet song
Hoarse with enthusiasm, applause,
Cause and effect, reject the spiderstep entry.
Speak your mind, brother!
Decline the whine to line the stacks and spines
Of whines that line the stacks
Backed in rows for your perusal,
Refusal to bow down to the push of apathy
Sympathy to the word sinews
The mouth thews of utterance
Spewed in elegant soliloquy.
Salivate the wait state.
Hate the silence,
Love the rhythm
Schism syllable split
Ground down into primal motion, emotion, motivation,
Exhalations of me on the windowpane of the morning bus ride
That divides my prehistory.
So you ask me of poetry?
And the answer is.
Cyrus N. ©2002