Po – A Poem

What is there to a Po? 

Lord only knows how far it goes. 

A sliver of light, and then you see 

That the light is not light, but something more free. 

An occasion for pause, because

The real culprits and the real noise

All happen down below, in the holdout of the big foreign ship,

Where no kindly middle aged men have the courage to go. 

You yank and you leak, 

But no thoughts from paltry militiamen do you speak. 

A rose in the hair, 

Several feedback loops in the lair, 

And all of a sudden a blister has burst

And you have been left completely unaware. 

Po – what it is there to a poem, Po?

A series of lines and squiggles and ointment. 

An inclination burner,

An enthusiast for the masses of green witches

And all their little itches. 

Spritz to come and soft edges. 

How many miles to climb until the dungeon is reached?

A miracle cure for most incurable ailments. 

A liver transplant under the auburn sun. 

Po – what is in and about a poem, 

A wretch like her to pick up the pieces of madness 

In all their happy-go-lucky stances.

A single lonely encumbering portion. 

No, what is the willingness we feel for 

Attaining something real?

Is it currency, is it liability, is it something completely inane?

What’s the cause of less life over ‘X’ amount of time?

Drift, pulley, inside the man. 

Wake, feel the resplendent sourpuss wetting and weeping itself

At the kitchen counter.

Begging for a snack attack, 

Before you are forced to trace all your footsteps back,

Back to the times before the time. 

Closed before sleeping,

Listening made mad,

Speaking before getting glad, 

Wishing before cleaning mode 

(Because when you’re in cleaning mode the whole world is gone, it’s officially over),

Nestling august things toward ripening old ear, 

Nurturing minion mother towards unbearable and yet crucial ends, 

Sacrificing pricey game for father in his crusty backwards cherished wisdom.

Pricing everything way above market value (and knowing that there is a reason for doing that),

As there is a reason for most things in life you do.

Po – what consists of a poem, its inner workings?

How come no one answers their calls?

Calm agate ring in her mouth, 

And she refuses to spit it out. 

Face white as the sheet of a ghost,

And scary as all bludgeoning tales

Of wicked sisters who fight over freshly baked bread.

Fruit up the yin-yang, but that isn’t what’s required. 

A maelstrom is required to take it all down and collect the seeds,

Collect each one of the seeds

And feed them to each one of your open-mouthed dolls. 

It’s the only fair and balanced way to approach things in this life. 

Po – why do people write poems, and 

Po – where do the feelings and the contents of poems come from?

Do they come from dreams,

From random snippets of conversations that you hear on public streets?

How do you surrender yourself to the gods of art

Without completely losing your soul in the process,

Regardless of the slow or swift advancement?

How do you live in reality without burning every second of your life,

And how do you avoid becoming a complete and untouchable pariah while still detesting every person you come into contact with?

Can a car move at all without a driver?

Can a dog go on a walk without its owner?

Can a baby be made entirely on its own, 

In and within and without and outside of thin air?

Po – where do all the feelings and the meanings go

When the song or the poem ends?

What happens to the rest of the day

And the rest of our minds?

Where does it all go, until it is reused?

A listening ear, you fierce kittens!

A stark contrast to all of the naked women posed as storks 

Outside your creepy crawly bedroom windows!

I listen, but I cannot mouth the words in rhythm 

Before they are eaten up by pissed drunkards.

I live my life as if it were a play, or a poem, or a song.

I find ways of getting along.

Po – where is Judas with the knife hiding?

And how can I prevent the inevitable from happening,

The 

End

Of 

This 

Poem….

The….

End….?