The Poet, and Her Geography



And all for verse, I wrote it.


To preach for our

Humble experiences.


We have miles, and the seas behind us,


From the farthest

Splashes, we

Have Carved out harmony

from chips,


and from waste cans

from Non-numerical points. And

single handed directions.


And all for verse, shadows wane.


Towns lurk behind

The nation’s plaques of honor.

And always chanting with

The atlantic winds,

My song of healing hums.


But yet, Stillness.


Knowledge of how

To make light out of darkness.

Treachery. Black magic. Danger.


Locked neutral spaces

linger in Even

more uncharged time.


Splash, big one.


big splashes

Into even larger sinks.

Sinks that sting with citrus

Oil and chlorine.

Afraid to explode the constraints of

Science. Manufactured rationality.


Innate magical powers lay

Dormant. So


The art book of beat poets

Is reread through the mic.

And other pretentious


Persons shrouding in non

Less than righteousness

Hold the trademarks


Over my burlap sack dues



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