The madness of matter:
(gather up your poets)
If we find
the smallest ever particle
and then
peer microscopically inside
do we find
the next smallest particle?
And so the
truth becomes a lie
and the lie
that there is an end
becomes the
truth to be divided —
when to the
poet matter does not matter
except in
the metaphor created, take this rock
how heavy
my heart of late, please, take
this solid rock,
and throw it in the lake,
the ripples
of my experience, the lake of my tears,
the sound
of a heart breaking, the sinking into despair
— until we arrive
at the momentous moment
when the rock-solid
particle is no more
than a
dream within a dreamer’s head
wanting to
prove again and again
that anything
can be diced and sliced
but
everything is real and all that isn’t really
doesn’t
matter anymore.
Or, to put
it bluntly,
as faceless
realists send ‘round the cart,
villagers gather
up your poets
and throw
them into the streets
as some real
unknown stranger cries,
‘bring out your dead,
bring out your dead!’
and listen
for the poet’s body
hitting the
one below it, being hit
by the next
to be thrown, like lines
and words
and rhymes, mangled
and
tangled, paradise lost
as the real
cart carts them off
into the cowboy’s
sunset,
‘bring out your dead
bring out your dead!’
No comments:
Post a Comment