Freewrite, Sunday June 20, 2007
- I don’t understand it either, but rhythmically it’s good. I guess this was an experiment.
If it were I who bore the stupid seed, perhaps the flowers would wilt all the same, this time in pity, and not because of the torrential rain. Poetic herecy, heretic postulate, postmortem hatred, it is all the same. Not one sense in it all, but every sense in but a little of it. No need to divulge the means or the method, but leave all to the sense and senility of the peers all too keen to read on and on and on and on and on. My outpourings, now held aloft upon the backs of the weary, the final burst of passion before this world succumbs to the second coming of Christendom, now that is the reason I’m here. But you, why are you here? Why wait upon life for just that next moment when you could be living, as I failed to do?
A poem, LO! A vagabond,
Assaulting wits too quick to slow,
Now for the aged; they are fond
Of you, not I
A marriage, LO! A pretty farce,
Arresting those too mixed to match,
Now for the aged’s faith–the last
In you, not I
A baby, LO! A privateer,
Assailing life too long to love,
A brittle hug is always near
For you, not I
A memory to halt it all,
A pause so sweet–too sweet to last
Then off you go to death you’ll fall,
Forever laid in life’s new past
Perhaps the only poem stands
Is one wrenched not from hope,
But one forged cynically from will:
Noose-wrapped on a rope.
To me this makes a little sense, but to you who knows? I can imagine the literary giants looking down on me from their mighty rests, wondering whether their toil was worth the paper it was burnt on.
