Tuesday, November 26, 2013

The Curse

The artist sees
    and offends those who refuse to see

The prophet tells
    and offends most who will not listen


She ran
yards ahead of them
first out of the blocks
fluid limbs
the tiny athlete
perfect form without instruction

they ran too
no course, no track, no destination
but plain to see - there was
no flailing of body parts
only smooth locomotion
the open sky
the empty long hallway
wide space begging for definition

noise needing to be made
games needing to be played
laughter to be brought forth
singing erupting, no audience

which day, what hour
did we forsake this simple playground for the 
anxious and barren wasteland
we now stumble through?


Tripped over a young poet 
as I tumbled through webs of words
she is good 
and she will cut out her own guts
with a dull knife
to make you feel