Poet I was when
Posted: December 20th, 2010, 5:17 am
Poet I was when
the words became flowers
and the star spoken night
held up words before my eyes
to read as those other words
tore me asunder and made me
cry on the flowers and the stars
cast into the street of my drug
tossed into the written cave of
star painted walls of space, I dug
through the heaps of silences
crept through the sigh and chance
jazz ghosted my voice in smoke
and awoke in me costumes of snakes
and saints like tiger brights on either
neither here or there, hare or dare
look at the writing on the hurricane
the fury and fluster the luck and flare
only to find the same words
crying at the sweep of shadows
and pale parlors of distant dawns
my sentiments of rags and paper
bags can never hold a lit match
to the torch of totality and mock
at the artist as he paints the poet
we believe what we be leaves
a poet believes in flowers and stars
but only because they take on words
in their most hidden aspect, most
primitive upheaval as the night tree
bleeds rivers of branches that brush
universes and particles, I stood
there transfixed to the earth and book
of shadows as it swept me down time
the strange beat moved my feet of tongues
and burst my illusions into lamps and tramps
we tramp what we trample grapes of rats
and moon soaked roads of wild maps of
wonder and wander under and yonder green
the tatter of the matter is a beauty to fold into
like drops of rain from some stain made of ink
If you blink the whole drink will slink by and by
the words became flowers
and the star spoken night
held up words before my eyes
to read as those other words
tore me asunder and made me
cry on the flowers and the stars
cast into the street of my drug
tossed into the written cave of
star painted walls of space, I dug
through the heaps of silences
crept through the sigh and chance
jazz ghosted my voice in smoke
and awoke in me costumes of snakes
and saints like tiger brights on either
neither here or there, hare or dare
look at the writing on the hurricane
the fury and fluster the luck and flare
only to find the same words
crying at the sweep of shadows
and pale parlors of distant dawns
my sentiments of rags and paper
bags can never hold a lit match
to the torch of totality and mock
at the artist as he paints the poet
we believe what we be leaves
a poet believes in flowers and stars
but only because they take on words
in their most hidden aspect, most
primitive upheaval as the night tree
bleeds rivers of branches that brush
universes and particles, I stood
there transfixed to the earth and book
of shadows as it swept me down time
the strange beat moved my feet of tongues
and burst my illusions into lamps and tramps
we tramp what we trample grapes of rats
and moon soaked roads of wild maps of
wonder and wander under and yonder green
the tatter of the matter is a beauty to fold into
like drops of rain from some stain made of ink
If you blink the whole drink will slink by and by
