Poem: Draft

 

Draft

 

hands will get dirty, the mind too,

the former in the latter,

rooting through that cauldron of

sparking neurons, that stubborn pig iron of

anxious meat.

 

i try to remind myself

the stench could someday dim.

decay of pride could free the truth and  

wings of life might soar from the pages and

stanzas of this horrible corpse of

a tattered wreckage of a draft,

rise as if from some magic bean-like

cocoon tucked in one of the 

eye sockets.

 

just a quark, the tiniest of dice.

and yet somehow the mental bowels of

my mind didn’t ruin it when

they defecated over and over.

maybe the quark that became a seed-cocoon

will trellis into fresh and original flocks

of exceptional murmuration,

proud in that superb way

which never thinks to brag

or even smile.

 

maybe.  but the gods only know

how you did it--if you did it--

or if the time was well spent,

or whether you whored your precious awe

for pretty lines.

 

 

 

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10/13/25 ... snipped a word

9/16/25 snipped a word

9/14/25 ... mods all day