Do
Not Judge the Owner of Stained and Crooked Teeth
Do not judge the owner of stained
and crooked teeth
He may be free from suffering and
experience peace
May the mind that occupies my trill cold cranium
Concoct that same round quality
he may know wide
From calm and heart, full as pods
with seeds of maybe
Of monks or Victorian adventurers
from church to trail
Of mahoganied Royal Geographic Society
lure
Forget about regret, loneliness,
the desperation of hurt
Forget Freud, discussing the
heavy burden of Can’t Know
The underbelly of insects when shocked/afraid
to die
Women, hopeful, bellies ripe and
sunlit upon. Poems
Spilling into the stream of
canyon where carved enigmas
Like Havana’s jazz, sequoiadendron
giganteum stands
Words crooned confidently through
chambered branches to
Optimistic gardens of sky where amniotic
sacs loose floods
Philanthropists, fresh fruit and conscientious
objectors
Fan firestorms of past where
peace evolved. Men:
Ascetics in their thirst, fed lame
birds til they grew stuffed
Under thunderheads by the
riverstones and reeds
Walloped by rain ‘til their down
degenerated into internet
My teeth have fallen out, kicked
away, I’m scared
All I’s. All me’s.
Bald spots. Why are they
snickering?
Where is the poor man now? Being born upstairs with rags
This is the part of the poem where
I ask you the question
Yet you’ll never respond,
reader. Never respond
But this is where you pause, and move
on
No comments:
Post a Comment