THIS IS NOT A PRETTY POEM

 

This may be a rude question—a little up front—in your face—but what the hell are you here for?

–At my door soaked from the sleet and rain—after wandering your darkest imaginings by the trap door in the field abutting the airplane landing runway—at the stacks of plastic coffins?

–Ricocheting in the malfunctioning synapses / electrical wiring of my brain?

You seem deranged today—more so than usual–at a loss—and a cost to your own spiritual bottom line. I’ve noticed– I’ve been watching you watch me–as I pace about the House with my binoculars–that I swear I purchased for the opera and the birds at the feeder. Yes, it’s creepy—but nonetheless–

Why are you here–in these lines and syllables, morphemes and such, of this poem? What do you want?

–To kick some metaphorical dog vicariously? Some bi-product of exquisite road rage? All those jerks on your ass and speeding up when you just want to make a left turn, get there–where you are supposed to but don’t wanna be—that place/claustrophobic space—where you want to come unhinged? Splice things open? Bleed a bit? Touch other people’s wounds—to know that somehow—you are really not alone?

No, this is not a pretty poem, so this poem—it wonders what brings you to this artistic, meandering frontier—of nowhere certain?

Do you want to discover some version of reality–of yourself–as you step into this moment’s river—an iteration in motion that you can live with? The ice is wailing at its edges—the blackness emerges from underneath and finds us–though not all of us will open the rusted doors, speak of it.

If I speak of it—will that make you uncomfortable? Will you finally spill? Dish it out? Go without your lamentations? Everything that you cling to—to make it all manageable, palatable, not so intense? Why can’t you talk about it?

No, this is not a beautiful poem. Beauty—it went out the window. It was a visceral decision—and incision into problematic emotion—you know—the road rage. This poem somehow it senses your tired apathy–in the context of how things have turned out–your fractional self-loathing for the part you played without meaning to—those compromised choices with echoing repercussions–let them be.

It understands your anger at the government. What can we do? Write out a metaphysical plan—a bizarre collaboration—when you have time to?

It is time—to spill. Tell me–what it’s like under your skin—I know I creep under it with this scalpel that wants to dissect you—like me, too littered with dis-ease.

I long to share it—parcel it all out. Here take a stanza—hold on tight—you look so-not-yourself—so fraught with winter.

Does this poem tire you—inspire you? It desires you to become lost—in the synapses of its syntax of my brain—its deranged way of piecing it all together–with superglue and mercurial threads—only to pull it all apart—as if it is not human and susceptible to demise—at the end. To end on a final note. Make sure you study for the final. Make sure you bring a pen.

 

 

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