16 August 2011


Scouch 8/16

I thought I could get into the ivory tower through the back door

That I could be the social poet tweeting my words into the air

Creeping pass the turnstile at the entrance and running break neck for the white monolith where the writers circle endlessly and touch the places the famous men have touched

My feet ache and the hair on my arms is standing on end in the chill of the night coming off the river Lethe

It is all so maddening

Standing at the shore of this moat waiting for the bridge to lower

For that something to fill in the darkness and the light

I call out to the shadows I can see walking in their narrow halls in the tower of song and they continue to pace their rooms too busy to hear my one in a million voice I'm sure they have heard all of this before

I write short poems on paper and fold them into planes and let them float into the water

Let me say that I am prepared to do this until I am unable to hold the pen

And I don't care how cold it is

And those faces at the window never need to look my way for me to feel my entrance to the rooms beyond

I will build my own rooms on this side of the world

They will include the sound of air and the smell of grass and they will have no roof and the walls will be cardboard and paste I will open windows into them and doors and stars will circle them and the shadows will all vanish in the light I've created

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