I have given you the book of poems.
In which there are notable lovers,
Gnostic more than once,
Humans that belong to the plant level.
But we are here, on air,
where the weather is a rollercoaster, is mimicking
Our global emotions and we are in free-fall
Within a rickety-rot infrastructure.
And worse, the wars are a house
of horrors, and we live in this house.
And yes, my horse, I am cold,
am quiet accretions of ice.
Under the snow there is a crust,
under the heart: A filling: a feeling:
Mud! And mud, I am told
Is where the poem comes from.
It is about to be unleashed, an animal.
Experience organizes the poem in waiting,
And so we must live, like Rimbaud
Who, I am told, gave up Hope for Happiness:
No more words! I bury the dead in my belly!
And signed a renunciation of poetry.
Did he remember how to live, then,
disavowing the truth in penning?
He worked as a circus cashier and in Cyprus’
quarries. He deserted the Dutch army in Java,
having enjoyed the free ship ride east. Later,
he was a trader of coffee, cloth, and skins in Harrar
and Arabia, running guns in Tadjourah.
Yet Rimbaud never refused the letter form-
Do you suppose he still believed
Even after his lover Verlaine shot him,
that words have the power to create?
Or are words just wishes just want
just seeds in the excretion
that the poor dig through in search
of something to eat? Here, I think,
is where the lovers would answer
that they are the planet, in eurhythmy
in and about those pages. Reading
them turns into a touching.
A thumbprint is ours, is a switch on a torch.
The hands perform the wish, exacting faith in shaping.
Lovers remove their layers,
release the occasion from the universe,
unlock from natural law radiant in
each other, ensuring there is earth
left in the aftermath.
No, no worries, my wolf
It is not the book I need back.