Is this a hangnail bugging me, and
if that's the case
in which case will the frumious
blundersnatch hide his self?
This is not my beautiful house. How did I get here?
Am I writing poetry?
And if so,
IF, SO,
what's the equation I would balance?
Is all I have questions?
My intonation can't always escalate,
Can it? You'd read this and know my mind.
I'll write it with time out of mind
and knowledge will be a whisper never breathed.
"I grow old, I grow old,
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."
Nonsense and broken quotations flock about my brain,
a parliament of rooks,
an unkindness of ravens,
a murder of crows,
flapping and cawing for my leavened attention.
I'm walking silent halls with a noisy mind
and all I can find on the two endless walls
are the stenciled words of others.
Is this the way the world ends? Not with a harangue,
But a simper?
"I beg of you, have patience with all that remains unresolved in your heart..."
Prose, now, too? Enough! Enow! E'en now!
Some days a little nonsense is all that can be said about one's life. To paraphrase Fight Club: We're a generation of children raised on Dr. Seuss. I'm beginning to wonder if another poet is really the answer.
