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December 23, 2005
hack writer
somwhere on the western drawstring
there lies a threadbare eyelet
its run like a noose
around the medium
and my own words
or hands
are worthy of
or up to
the task
I unvail an invention
that beguiles your attention
towards false imagery
corrupted detail
spoken to the eye
by the living silence
that lies
beneath
no
the synapses fire blanks
into the literary socket
such crude tools
we are given
so few have the gift
of the gab
or the poetry
for spreading the ink
like a mosasic
across the page
no, we hunt game
with toothpicks
and pine nettle
with the abilities
of a dolt
avid minds often starve
from what we pass off
as balladry
chicken feed
and laymans dialog
pitiful attempts
to keep afloat the pungency
of the three dimensions
that encompass us
hatchets
and rocks
we furnish their imagination
with rubble and rubbish
at the coming of dusk
I expose a bundle of mangos
to a sinking falsetto
and follow the moment
and all the moments that follow it
with an insight
that will continue
to fail me
Posted by Drexler at December 23, 2005 03:58 PM