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Joel-Peter
Witkin ‘The Poet’ 2005
©
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dysmorphic-constant interrogation of rapid eye movement futures
rear
viewed
history
is
a self
contained
prisoner of war
ground
forces
cults
of personality
tiny
issued warnings
of
humanity needing
tissue
septicemia
the
cellular cyanide
is
sewn beneath the skin
between
the artifice
of
my smile
and
my informational
control
mechanisms
the
punch out ticket
is
the ride
to
santa claus
candy
houses
in
the woods
every
heaven
gated
with a departure time
that
leaves certainty
for
the folks
I've
left behind
I
keep a mirror close
and
hearts far away from here
I feed
the cage
I am the animal
I swell with
trial
balloon
after
trial balloon
don’t
tell me I’m lying
I
already know that
tell
me what you’re doing
what
words bleed you
upside
down
backwards
right
side
of
the coin
that
comes to rest
with
a shoulder shrug
and
a guess
we
are done
here
sheriff
cruiser
lights
low
waits
billboard
encampment
long
night
for
speeding
ain’t
a thing
for
folks dreaming
it’s velvet
all
the way
from
midnight
to
Dawn
but
someone
some
human being
with
a higher sense of purpose
than
is necessary
for
a common good
maybe
even a poet too
might
have their
two
hands on the wheel
destiny
as a destination
they
might even be in a hurry
they
might not even pay attention
to
the blanket of stars
telling
them with very old light
on
the other side of safety glass
how
right in the moment
they
could be
if
it isn’t all about
the
will to fight for
the
cut-out allegiances
the
spray bottles
the pills packaged
the fresh
frozen nutrients
the microwavable locally
sourced
vaporized
inhalation vehicles
then
could it be all about
the
recreational to occupational
personality
enhancements
I will sing
aria after aria
to
the dark inside me
that
this isn’t my world
and
I am not
a
leader of its pretend
“sir,
you’re stopping my progress”
no
license or registration papers
attended
with and given
over
to the pinned badge
cloth
buttoned shirt
matter
as much
as
the maps
in
my eyes
my
dirty eyes
filthy
words
and
soft love
looking
for something
closer
than it appears
to
my pockets full
of
scavenge and glory
I
have formed
a serial
adherence
to the appearances
of causes long
since
lost to me
and it is these things
I keep cleaned
of
memory because
the
best chains
are
always the ones
I
put on myself
EJR
©
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