There’s a logarithm to it all
, the way it hums in hush
-hushphrase and caves
to the temptations of sacred page
battles and flesh
(sweat, tears). It took
this poem years to (over)come to its
senses, suitcase its defenses
and hit the road,
never look back.
This poem is a black
photograph of its own brain.
Cerebrum. Cerebellum. Medulla oblong
-ata, all the same.
This poem is not a sestina.
Or a siesta. Or a fiesta. Or a (love)song,
really. Though you can sing it, if you
want. But it’s neither canto
It’s unmeasured, treasured
only in its chapped skin of regret,
its dangerous lie
-asons, open palms.
This poem is a backroom deal
-er, a stealer of rhyme and not. A loose thought
caught on a curious string. A thing of beauty,
and a beast. At least,
that’s what they tell me. It’s a verb.
A vibe. A small ant tribe carrying its own
hill. A spill. A statement in full,
It’s your favorite martini
(stirred)with an ink
Hint: Add an olive.
And a twist.
Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 25. This is the one with all the prompts.