not a Christmas tree

[revolutionrabbit]

a poem is not a Christmas tree
it is not your old broken typewriter
rotting in the road that is a tongue
you did not come here to meditate
on nothing, or something

even though you dreamed of Tibet or Timbuktoo
a poem is not a door mat on the roof of the world
you are but its imagination in the realms of nirvana
but that is not why you are writing this poem

you are not writing this poem
you are not anywhere near it
you are a dot on a black sun flower wall of space
but suddenly your inside the poem
like a word inside a shadow horn
like a landscape inside a shoe

a cave inside a lemon
a dagger inside a prayer
hidden assassin of the silence
thorn in the side of the lock
moon inside of the sock

she whispers inside your skull
rocks fall out of your borrowed head
you hear the ocean inside the museum of mountains
a dark hat rises from the scar of light her voice of flames
the caravan of cities leaves tomorrow from the infernal rose

[dadio]

Bukowski & I love this poem.