I once believed it healthy
to wear an open mind;
if nothing else, it helped
avoid an accumulation
of sweat-soaked embarrassments
and pheromonal fictions.

Since those head-strung days
my mind has been changed
[by ego-friendly infiltrators]
for one more suited
to the current climate; watertight,
fire-resistant, air conditioned,
buried in the sand of science.

But where do I find poetry
when rhythm trickles to routine
and rhyme sucks up the repetition?

Rising in your fluency
it burns my fingers, licks them clean
then curls the curves in my submission.

I have no doubt

that lines, whether drawn in sand
or carved in stone, are often crossed
in pursuit of the write thing;

that words may be wielded
to fashion a double-edged sword;

that this uncertainty is fed
more by chaos than karma;

that the art of poetry lies
in its artlessness.
With that in mind, I am open
to all prospects
within those inexplicit confines
that delineate charisma in your smile.

09/04/2011

Posted on 09/04/2011
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