(The underbelly of objectivity)
Inspiration is enticement enough
can’t you feel the cancer in the air?
and still,
no cure for the cost of fuel
(they’re lined up at the passport office)
west at sunset into the forecast of election promise
- and we’d really like your opinion
full of unspoken quotation
marks, check the box that least uninspires
ah, full circle, but not nearly enough
there is still the matter of the metal birds,
their tendency to flock
and migration from south to north
in the springtime of new politics
harping on
those that fly at night elicit the greatest intrigue,
clandestine journeys - to where?
Back roads of the human spirit, twelve paces past the line
that separates the class,
(every one must secretly revel in some sense of superior)
intelligence not always the least of evils,
the hackneyed freedom song down-at-heel
there are benefits to organization,
the climb, the launch, and what
if there’s no coming back, no regression to
base line subsistence?
it is a puzzle of course, a lexicon of middle-upper class
laid down in confident presumptions
and a cargo that can’t be replaced,
that in itself is subtle with contradiction.
Hey, Lennon was on the radio today
and Alanis thanking India
decades blur before you catch on,
how time folds in on itself
in an eddy of fast and slow woven into fine fabric
oh, forget the fine, as long as there are threads that cross
as long as isolation is impossible, even if distance (- no,
the notations may pose the most interest and subsequent discussion
as is the nature of things that should be uttered clearly or be left entirely unsaid).
Too many, unsaids that is,
(and should she mention the digression?)
best to steer that clichéd ship back on around I would think,
it did end several lines ago now
perhaps, as breaths work to slow the pulse,
a quieter plea
still as demanding as the adrenal rush,
timing being everything -
pause with faith in momentum.
The underbelly of objectivity brews,
stirred by lines on the highway
evidence of carnage long since left behind,
obscured by weathered tire tread
the end product of exhaustion shares its rewards with providence
the worth of experience deserves its dividends –
beware the dry-mouth thirst for art, it’s therapy,
nightmares and pipe dreams, too, deserve their play on words
you can’t believe everything you redesign to suit your own sanity
evidenced in epitaphs of truth spun by doctors of design
that twist talking heads in puppetry of persuasion,
ardent attention must be granted to the chemistry of clarity -
this the way we soothe our nerves,
soothe our nerves, soothe -
fill the cracks with the black tar of enlightenment
can’t keep the weight on, can’t wait to move on
- the climb, just far enough -
wait, tarry here a moment,
sojourn in the language of first encounters,
gather the patchwork remains,
they will prove useful,
cooler days when quiet is allowed to collect;
birds busy themselves in the garden, borrow from their instinct
the light lengthens,
persistent in its efforts to awaken those in its path,
the frightened build their obstacles of power,
who can cast the largest shadow?
So often accused of held breath
(when she relishes the absence of commitment with all of its contingencies),
anticipate the exhalation – there, did you feel it, just far enough –
again, we bracelet a cluster of thought,
turn nouns to verbs to compensate for the rip off in importance of the subject matter- hasn’t every one resorted to distraction or a clever quip from time to time
to guarantee engagement of an audience, no matter the size?
In the ongoing debate over message versus medium,
each has its place and time.
Panic subsides only to be called back by the need for nothing short of brilliant,
but what makes the measure, who sets the bar, who accounts for matters of opinion
(more than half way there, will the rest of the climb prove too steep, too perilous)?
The car that soared one-hundred-fifty feet will not be remembered in the annals of exception
(we can not talk about the motive of the driver, nor his fate)
such utterances are stifled to keep the order of obedience,
the illusion of all-is-well, well-as-can-be, perhaps,
the faith was well-founded it would seem,
as the impetus rebuilds, there is drudgery that must be done,
to reap the full experience,
to learn to sift through listenings
all told with fervor regardless of volume.
Oh come, just one more breath- deep,
the pleasure of pressure as it pushes the stale –
the change of season can also hold its breath,
the inevitable clean-up of autumn’s residue, obscured again by white,
the gasp gathers warm, so close now, the almost of revolution
evolution with a foot on the ground, tap root to legacy
– remember, the patchwork remains
the weave is stronger than one might want to imagine;
gutters, riverbeds, all capture the very same essences,
aftermath of varied circumstance
Passion
the bedrock of vitality
allow the inklings a corner to mingle
go now, seek strangers of similar persuasion, evolve
time is a fickle patron to the art of expression,
it’s been years since we first met.
In a list
A contest entry
- Here's the Soapbox...Use It by MuddyKing.
900 points, ended April 4, 2007, 10 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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the only space where creativity
isn't breeding
maybe copulation but the need for spirit
did not created any monstruous ghosts
maybe huge egos but their vanity is forgiven
because art
never started any war
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Impressed.
I really appreciate this poem. For me what makes it work has absolutely nothing to do with this or that good line, poetic devices, or any of that stuff. This is rambling truth - a big mess of unfinished ideas that combine to form something that carries its message intuitively, behind words.
I hope this doesn't sound arrogant, but it's a pretty rare poem that I just flat want to read again at this point. You've got your technical marvels, your emotional sledgehammers, your abstract gee-whiz poems ... and then you've got something like this. I don't want to read it again because this is "the kind of poem" that I like to read. I don't want to dissect it and put it back together again. I don't want to draw inspiration from it. I don't want to try to learn something new. I read this again because it felt really great the first time. A lot of really great poets don't strike me like that.
I'm not nearly as well-read as some folks are on AP, but I'm at least to the point where I can spot a one-off. This isn't one. Bookmarked.
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One of the best comments I've received in my time here. Thanks.
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metal birds. i am inspired by that, or i will be soon, when i'm not trying to watch a movie about loose groupies and be emersed in intelligently crafted art at the same time. i will come back to this, i know it.
you did some interesting things here, whether intentionally or not. and i'm not sure how to explain what you've done, as i've not seen it before.
this is amazing. -
I forgot this last night...lol
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WELL DONE!
"check the box that least uninspires"
"the notations may pose the most interest and subsequent discussion
as is the nature of things that should be uttered clearly or be left entirely unsaid)."
"you can’t believe everything you redesign to suit your own sanity"
Congrats on a well deserved award, This is wonderful.
My fave passages, quoted above,rock me with the truth of them, the impact.
and finally,
"go now, seek strangers of similar persuasion, evolve"
That line hits so well, I , at first, wanted it to end there, hanging. But the last line really does fullfil it best. Just wonderful.
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thanks Rob
I will get to reading the other entries but working full time now has me up to my eyeballs in news and
I haven't quite figured out how to fit in the time for everything else yet.
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I need to read you more than I do
contender
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Wow
I have to come back and read this again before I can comment. I like what I see though
three cheers for the icing, I'll be back for the cake.
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thanks for being brave enough to sign the guestbook
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