meta in marcato Or, on the qui vive

By Jules Alder

One more, for poetry's sake. The only poem I'd published for the world to see until today. I hereby surrender my rights :)
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a poem is an argument, shaped by an unseen gland
managed by unsleeping, acorn-noshing giants who
carry tiny schedule books with nothing in them

a poem rousts the writer from the grave, from madness,
from grilling weather backyard Sunday afternoon

and subverts the mind once more to words instead of
calico sunshine-induced, fuzzy-shaped feelings

even the sex parts pause in the dark for you, and
waiting, light up a ciggy take in a movie piss

a poem won't stand for nothing over something:
maybe makes me a bitch but it ain't no birthing

labor doesn't take this long + nine months
god bless you, though, and thanks for the light

finding the words comes by a tenor of lifetimes,
a lot of bodily rot, simpering death cheers.

plath wrote about cadavers. that's fine. really
although i would've liked to have seen more, much more
and maybe i would've liked to have met that bitch too

the day hangs like a corpse on the moon

it's no use. this almond-eyed poem knows me too well
it whispers, the little caviler, that the better argument

by far (and don't we all know it, stronger = better)
than an army of cadavers armed with rose petals, last rites

is to ask why you haven't smeared these pages
down your screaming body, moved in with them
and immersed these words in all that fine salt

or why he didn't call, didn't try, didn't care
or just forgot he was supposed to i guess

oh, hell. here it is again: i can't go on.

the poem will understand. maybe even you will too
but i can't go on. so now i lie

in the soft, soft dark which does not judge
and wait for a more absent-minded sun

meta in marcato Or, on the qui vive

Created: Feb 05, 2010

Tags: poetry

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