Poetics

by grey wolfe lajoie

The Poet will arrive at your doorstep, Black bars over his eyes, Try to sell you his song, Clever and tuneless. Cause for alarm.

The poet can imagine you as a child, Recall dreams for you, Lick his way through scenes, Then pop atop the meaning, Like a robin on its wire.

Just beware. He laughs in riddles, the poet. Such skin of olive paste will slip, And dainty fists will slide in step Across your Georgia skin. Fingers of thieves, soft and bruised, He stole my mother too. That vicious midget, a jockey without guilt. This is important listen; Don’t let the poet lie to you.

He might, if you’re not careful, glide reckless, Fall careless, into that fragile lump Inside your chest. Then twist and split the alibi. Bleed dry the pigments, mud to ink to mud.

He studies you through moonlight’s husk, Asks “What is yesterday that it comes today?” He tells how many sounds you make Could have been his favorite. Think you see the birds in the trees again? You’re only acid washed in an image then. Sopping wet, flip-flops lost, Drowned so thick in wit. Apologetic and heavy With kisses and pops and screams.

The poet Is a sleazy angel, A denim spirit sprinting. His wads of wing fall off in hunks, Cigarette smoke shuffled. He speaks such hushes, Just specks. Like oil, like sin.

Dear poet, how can I help, My hero of loneliness? Nothing. I suspect. You see? His eyes, run long, droop, like drips of honey, like glue. His eyes run along, and come back burnt Just like glass, the long thin glint. Get used to the shards at your feet. We are made of the flu. Black and blue disappear from your face. What news do I have for you?