Monday, September 29, 2014

The Cockroach On My Coffee Cup

I must construct myself, discover who
I plan to be, erect an ego through

The forces, personalities all bent
On normalizing. Once, when greatness meant

A recognition of the beauty in
A soul, a mind, a masterpiece, the sin

Was in destroying it, but now the goal
Is to ignore -- degrade, de-wing -- the soul,

Ensure sweet ignorance prevails. A moth
In feather-felt dim evenings where the wroth

Can hide their hatred, or a butterfly,
Kaleidoscoping color fractals high

About the treetops in the sun in joy --

Who do you want to be, become? I show
My choice in eddied words, constructal flow

Of sounds that shape the unseen bed beneath
The surface lying like the truth. A wreath

Of words I weave in bold cliches and smart
Mixed metaphors to challenge workshop art.

A bold embrace of green surrealist tropes,
Postmodern nihilistic nonsense gropes,

Rejecting them through my embrace with lines
Romantic poets might have penned defines

My style, of who I choose to be, embrace.
Thus those who fear me fear I will displace

Their worlds -- I will, with all I can employ.

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