in which any old blogger can churn out a poem on self-inflicted deadline day
& all obvious observations aside, a parrot perched in the passenger-side backseat, refusing to eat, sleep or drink until his brother iS released from prison on grounds that he was falsely accused of embezzling money by hosting a fake auction in franklin county, misery, iS not a martyr.
and to kanye west & the like: "even if you in a benz, you still a nigga, in a coup."
in which the poetic medium cannot be functioning properly if any ashley with an inch of itch in her womyn can just hop online and post pseudoprophecies on why lovers in love should have quit loving their loved ones a long, motherloving time ago if they had any goddamned sense.
but then again, any mother loving time that often should be damned by one of them christian's gods, you know them ones that be allknowing and shit. yeah. them. cause that sounds real.
in which every passage starting with "in which" shall be disregarded as gimmick, trickery & hoodwinking at its finest. a real tragedy endured by the poetic population of the semipoetic nation of semiopaths, some of which whom all do some things okay, some of which do no thing well, and some of which aren't apart of the sum in its whole at any point of importance other than that one time one screamed, "help" in the middle of a trainstation before being bombarded by blank stares of software developers who just missed the shuttle to the convention.
in which we have to wonder, if antigravity & gravity matter & antimatter, then aren't the odds in our favor to parlay the three team teaser & finish the script in time to realize, with supreme authority, and no matter how fast herman cain's twitter page picks up followers, that the grand ole party of reaganites ain't gonna run no black dude against a black dude for that job?
in which we all occasionally stray away from the tongue of our natives in order to strike up a chaotic fury in our hometown or the hometown of the kids we went to high school with, depending on which came first, the event or the decompression. no, you wouldn't know.
in which it all starts to blur together, like we weren't supposed to see that or something. there are these moments, outside of poetic reflection, somewhere between your lymph nodes & your yellow teeth, where all questions & comments can be posted for eventual review by the board of directors at your local S&M lodge during sunday brunch
in which the last line iS the last line, with no ifs ands or maybes to butt their way in.
and it reads,
and it reads,
there's a poetry out there for us, every lost, dissipating light looking for a darkness to hide in.