the magician is doing illusions.
the lawyer is doing law. the doctor is doing medicine. the teacher is training
K-12.
the poet is a different type of
creature: art poetry, poetry form, prose poetry, prose, and more.
contemporaries are creating
mastery, utilizing every artform to make magic, concentrated about metaphor,
employing the many elements.
some are flying into vacuums and
voids and vanishing only to appear again. some are serenity, cleanness by
composure, art by its empty spaces.
the gristle and veins—streaming
mental seams, flooding paper, the ink first a sacred essence. made gothic, or
cultural, to witness its metamorphosis.
the miracle becomes the
creation—where it touches the community, framing particular universals.
poetry has a loophole. I learned
it. a lady gave it to me without making it obvious. she will continue to fly.
ancestors wrote with precision. we
like to read and study their works and arts and prose and passion.
I mislead myself. every art is
poetry, just different fragments, contemporary uniforms, radiant faucets.
she noticed something else. she
said is casually. it peeved her. I have not done it again.
the tragedy of the poet, is the
madness of the poet, in turn, becomes the majesty of the storytellers, the
poets.
it was by ear, every sentence,
voiced out in different intonations, from town to town, I imagine the poet was
unsettled by the mystery.
