by Indigo Tempesta
its all in there in it.
like everything i ate yesterday and the day before.
in a book she wrote. in a paper envelope. coming or getting ready to come.
it is a question mark nausea
in the curled up mental body
while the statement body works to clear the day's bread
yet it is not a question
but a dread lockjaw certainty.
what a book could say about something
that did happen, he knows and i know
and she would know too, if she studied as we study.
in it quietly, as flat paper will be, is
the future staleness of any bread that ferments to rise.
today barack obama said it's going to get worse
which is what everyone says and no metaphor that.
no one wants it to get worse but
who can help opening that paper to see
or how bad you were
or how bad it gets?
Author's Note: please critique.
Posted on 02/25/2009
Copyright © 2021 Indigo Tempesta
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by George Hoerner on 02/25/09 at 02:22 PM|
I think you must decide where you are going here. Is it just the "nausea" you want to focus on. And which naausea is it, the news, is it the reality you want to excape, or the situation in which we find ourselves, or the biting question of when we will get out of it, or will we get out it. Is there a fear it may take decades of hearing the same news? or maybe the fear that no one has answer because the news doesn't even know the problem? Take your pick and go with it.