Thursday, October 20, 2016

The Poet Sits Down To Write

Am I forgetting anything?
I mean, all poetry is just
one poem....all music just
one song. All art is just one
big shared heart.

That's not sentimental;
it's hard fact...unless you

"Guernica by" Picasso
"Lord Of The Flies"
and on and on
ad infinitum
are sentimental.

That's why, right now,
is there anything left to say?

We could talk infinitely at 
a table over whatever 
deliciousness, or, leather
chairs in the library,
long past when we died,
about ever arising topics
we hadn't thought about
because no one has thought
about everything, even Albert
Einstein who still believed in 
God, so, he must have missed

What's left worth talking about?
What colors, images left to see?

That's why I like to listen to certain
music over and over....
revisit Dali.

Certain perceptions stir certain 
emotions...the way the Blues
works, for example.

Nothing new under the sun...
a latah in Phoenicia invented rap...
an old man wrote a protest song
in the Ming Dynasty...
...the same songs play on Mexican
radio as adults sang in their youth.

To summarize:

The same words never come out
again. Even the same song heard
anew is now. 


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