A Chortling Titan,
Devoid of much else but yearning,
A whispered smile.
A Fist-Knuckle Break,
The roar of the arena,
Wine-red teeth.
- A Coherent Thought.
- A quiet moment in wonderland,
- Silent falling snow.
A Rumbling Pleasure,
A rattling content,
Seven ways to Sunday.
A break in the chorus and in all expectation:
I settle softly, patting the scars on my body with tenderness. They sing with a quiet knowing. The secret? That inner peace can be found within one’s own inner war. It is in the blood, you see! The body, ringing cacophony of a hundred tongues, foreign to the brain, but shockwave to the heart. One cannot do much to fight the lightning in my veins and the thunder in my bones. One such as this can only pat my Buddha belly, scratch my balding head, and roar with rolling laughter, wracking my muscles along the bones. More scars will come.
Such is the way.
Cognitive dissonance in many ways but none.
A tisket, a tasket, a stolen picnic basket, a Boo-Boo bear and Yogi there and no one ever asked for it. Roses are red, and tomatoes are too, so Julius Caesar for all and for you. A louse upon a lady-bonnet, but John Donne is a pervert and I still wrote him a sonnet.
Which is the way of the willow and whale? A whispering widow or watchers in a vale?
And so a rolling close, a murky lurker, and styles of the six paths. We all must reach an end, and some must seek forgiveness:
“Which is better? To be born good? Or to overcome one’s own evil nature through great effort?”
The eternal question still sounds, awaiting an answer.
Could a broken poem be loved in anything but parts? (This is the end.)
