November 29, 2019

• excreta tauri

  

   

  my mind is a gravity car
  that only rolls downhill.
  last night, the sky,
  mellowed by the gentle rain,
  sighed and was still.
  darkness melted
  all the shapes
  that were a landscape

  as i kept going downhill
  in my haphazard way
  from nowhere to nowhere.
  tonight, the north wind
  will come in whitely
  riding a country air
  like a tune from a redneck fiddle.

  i try to climb
  the dark mountain of wisdom
  but after a brief struggle
  i wisely surrender
  to the unrelenting.

  your mind is not like mine, you say.
  yours is a plush toy
  stuffed with the hollows
  between time and time,
  a shapeless joie de vivre
  and fuzzy remnants of yesterday–
  all a pillow for a weary, childish head.

  so what of the mind of poetry, then?
  that thick glass falling,
  that square frame of a door marked EXIT,
  those pots and pans in a row
  to collect rainwater from a leaking roof:

  Bullshit trompe-d’oeil

  • 6:04 am
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