ah, but indeed, the conscious effort, the twin tongues in the eyes making eyes less passive, to talk in remote places of silence, to decode the encoding, and still doubling up the silence, indeed the conscious effort of lost colours with too many contorts, with only a few comparisons to understood mathematics of a U or parabola.
why do i have to *read a poem?
why do i have to read a poem?
why can't i just look at it?
why do i have to give you a start
and finish interpretation
with a genealogy of lifting up
the first sound like a crying baby
and laying into the cold earth
with a tombstone of a full stop?
why? why? why?! can't i appreciate
a poem like an x-ray of paintings
with the two opposites? can't i
grasp a poem on the outlines of curves
and attach myself somewhere in between
not necessarily at the beginning
and making me into a river of narration
following you? poetry can't be music
any more, bob dylan tried and was
criticised for attempting a qualifying degree
of the index pointer and a nodding approval;
poetry now akin to painting...
i don't want chronology or genealogy,
i want the scattering, the lost paragraph,
the never attempted paragraph...
where i begin or end is up to me...
disown me poems... i want my poems
to make me an orphan - completely rejected
by the hands that tilled the blanks of
what became unearthed and poached
into pun plump potatoes of eager jaw and
rattling teeth: i want paintings! i don't want music!