You know what I don't like to read? Modern poetry. It's the literary equivalent to masturbation. That doesn't stop me from writing it every now and then, however. Here are a couple poems I composed.
How I See It
Drawing circles in the ground,
A stick jutting from our hand,
A bone lodged in between our teeth,
Suddenly we see it;
A pagan God,
Made of twigs as fragile as bird
bones.
We admire it, taken by its skinless
beauty,
Marveling briefly at the essence of
things.
He speaks; she speaks; then we all
babble
Arguing over the meaning of a stack
of twigs.
Eventually they desecrate it,
Snapping its limbs over our knees,
Leaving the dead to lie in broken
sleep.
All that's left
Is a scattered collection of dust.
At the Market
Kept audience
Apples by the bushel
Pastoral landscape
What a hustle.
Dry Bones
Four foot and hand under wing
Came they of the water
Came they from a fire
Came they from the air
Came they from the dust
Their wheels kept turning
And the bones kept forming
Flesh on dry, splintered bones
Skin on red, raw flesh
Man, lion, ox, and eagle
And the wheels stopped turning
The dry bones were bones no longer
What could I say to this host?
Born of my blasphemy
My false prayer
And my burning?
I turned from them
And fled the valley
Without sword
Without gnarled stick
Without wisdom
Without a pure heart
Dry bones they are to me
And dry bones they will be
Forever still
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