Saturday, May 7, 2016

This illusory fleck

This illusory fleck       

You might be a poet, wringing what truth comes
from words, those charlatans, tricks of breath,

yet something to pursue while chiseling away
at your own fraudulence.  You might be

given a choice, one day – art or truth. 
Surely, you’ll drop the attachment then,

to language, inspiration, conceptual thinking, too;
take a bite out of that red bright, indisputable apple,

a mouth too full to speak.  Or in shrieks of laughter,
ankle-deep wade the mountain stream,

like a holy roller on the pinewood floor,
bewilderment and incoherence your worship,

your life’s duty – not from any ecstasy
but from piety, sobriety and humility.

Wave from the flowing bridge; engage
in the marvelous activity of doing nothing

to understand and change this illusory fleck
you, as a person of words, have tenaciously explored

and so patently, obsessively, for yourself
and others, attempted to navigate and explain.

O child of God, if you are ever given the chance –
drop the words; kneel in awestruck silence.

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