“Poets are liars
that’s' for sure.”
I was never sure what
Set him off but there
he was, sitting
ex cathedra on his stool
at the corner of he bar,
drinking beer,
trying to get his hand
up under Carey’s skirt
and pontificating about
things he knew nothing about.
‘Poets are liars;
always poking and
prodding their syntax
in where it ain't wanted.
Knowingly, intentionally
making one word
to stand for another
obscuring, disarranging the
approved order of things;
making unexpected, indeed,
unwelcome connections
between diverse things
in a search for what the called
truth. What is truth? Is it not
what the powers that be decree
truth to be? To hear poets jabber
truth stands outside of our truth
and judges us. If it wasn’t so
ngerous if it would be laughable.
But poets are more dangerous than
bombers, for they don’t just
explode the sacred symbols
they show that something else
is possible. Hate vengeance
a man can control, but, vision
and hope a man can’t control.
A man’s got to be in control.
aint that right, baby?”
Carey snuggled a little
closer to him tipped us wink,
“I like a man who is in control,”
she said as she poured a beer,
down his crotch “but you’re not one!”
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Peace,
Dayvid
Christine
Peace, love and light,
Amber "V"