Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Untitled 97

The poem that was more like the Jackson Pollock painting I made with my eyes shut while I listened to the CD for the boy who will never hear it.

The poem that was more like the wall keeping everything from crashing down on me, keeping my eyes from closing while I slouch deeper into this chair.

The poem that was more like the sound of the television blaring, imposing upon me with its clamor and racket, the poem that wouldn't stop and refused to obey etiquette.

The poem that was more like my bed where I couldn't rest, not yet, because somehow the night is young. The poem that understood me and all my longings.

The poem that was more than a poem, the poem that was my life and then just the sensation, only, of this laptop resting on my body, my fingers stroking this keypad, these keys, and striving to send some message out to the stars. The poem that was this.

The poem of today, yesterday, and the day I go back home. The poem of returning, of journeys and of newness. The poem of summer and wonder. The poem of bread and popsicles, the poem of free verse association, and the poem of India, the poem of home, the poem of my hands are shaking, the poem of will someone know that I was here, the poem of will I have any impact. The poem.

No comments:

Post a Comment