maybe beauty will remain an abstract dirge; a mantra to be ruminated over
like a submerged leek
becoming tender in warm water.
as it seems to me all as vanished from our worlds galaxies
and cliques.
much poetry has propelled
into the bellowing mushroom cloud
of noxious gas.
Earth has garnished her seedlings
as the trees convulse in 4/5 time
leading scholars to compendious shame; shaking with violence muttering intellectual gibberish
to the delight of the spittle
forced out with the saying of it,
but what about me
the reporter,
the documenter of my purview,
what do I make of anything now
I say to myself in this pallid skin,
in these pallid days.
perhaps I should go tell it on the mountain, given the effulgence of effort
not merely in mind
but of the being
directing my reticent walk
out of a crawling crowd.
____
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Water Than Smoke’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
