Working on a new poem
Here’s a poem I’ve been working on. any responses would be greatly appreciated!
formatting is horrible, but whatever
Poem (a bubble)
of bright mediocrity. of long-ago praise that may or may not be lingering
in the shapeless light of forgotten, utterly pointless, utterly wasted musings.
something to replace religion lost or the father forgotten, but only really
as an outsider, as someone who would rather just sit around and consume the
fruits of others or to live lazily in art, in memories we have deemed important.
to shield us from the stars and other themes, images overused garbage
like cactus and rain, traffic, television, like impulses toward prehistory, or
to some telos, some pronouncement, somedusty word, some wandering mind.
because this is the human after all, and we are those who will
choose to read this poem with espresso, with our knowledge
of Keats, et al. with our knowledge of death, in our human bubble.
laughable really, that we would know about death
that we could see this bubble
that we could look to the sun without fear
that we could master our selves.
and so I write about anything but bodies dying. rathering to live
in denial of something, to make my day inside this bubble
to carve a piece of colored glass into this world and choosing to think
about writing not as an art —God no— but as our only real connection that
will transcend this death I cannot bear to imagine.
Or do I dream? Or have I dreamed till now?
I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak,
I smell sweet savors, and I feel soft things.
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed,
And not a tinker nor Christopher Sly — Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew. — Christopher Sly