Tuesday, November 29, 2016

The Poet Speaks

Los Angeles moves with quiet perfection
Too sleek to leave a scrape upon the pond,
All stories stay in the moment's motion
Like a juggler's knives.

But there's one who is still, savagely ranting
In black skullcap, white cane like an antler,
Trimmed beard, blue vest, white pants;
He stands at the crosswalk, bellowing the truth
That possesses him, one too big for words,
Almost too large for sound. He taps his cane
On the sidewalk and asks "where is reality, tell me,
Where?"

And so, in the vast stillness of Los Angeles,
Where everyone's a mask, frozen into manikins,
Swells a frisson of fear, outward like toothpicks
From an unsealed jar.

No comments: