there are spiders on the sidewalks and they’re roughly the size of god.
with knives sticking, legs kicking, i am turned around
in a downtown building, eyes watering.
remember me when i’m not falling.
pushing the kids around
he is remarking me in a whole new way, summing me up in no words.
question why you did this, why you did your best to keep me soundless—
i don’t blame you for it.
you’ve kept the poets justifiably mindless—
pictures without much color, heads in baskets.
we are going home.
we are roughly the size of god.
we will bring breezes for you, count our many pieces, clockwork pieces.
there are spiders on the shorelines and they’re roughly the size of god.
they’ve kept the poets beautifully hopeless—
treasures without much shine, bodies in caskets.
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Comments
--
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
--
“why do writers write? because it isn't there.”
—thomas berger
“no honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.”
—ts eliot
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