Wednesday, January 21, 2009

The Griot:

Voice X:
Something even stranger
Than those who freak so much on the charge
Of being born
That they immediately die
To do it again – that wasn’t fast enough
for
You. By the time you were fifteen
Every second flickered dark and light.
Your elegant fingers were horribly
Out-of-place, like anemone tentacles
Reaching for prey – if you brushed against
A string the string sprang
Alive and sang, pleading; touch
me again – assemble cadence,
into living shapes - Give! The clay
That stuck between your toes
Adored you. The stupidity of someone
Believing they owned you wasn’t it -
Unfazed by the infantile suck of furies –
You didn’t do it to escape the demon froth of hate –
It was the unbearably predictable nature
Of their love
You couldn’t take -
The dullness of rote,
The smug spew of thistledown, the succession of
Gasps that passed for breath, the agreement
Between subject and tense,
The worship of the list,
a-e-i-o-u – bleep, blip.

It feels better
sliding through the abyss, even
having the stars
incise their tracks across your face,
whatever… -ish.

The storm between that world
And this pummeled your face with its fists. God
Himself got up off this throne to give your
Ass a kick. Oh Poet – you picked up the kora
And stood by the spring of birth
and praised
The slippery souls who surge
In endless stream, each one clutching
The feet of the one who came before – their
Mouths oped and sound-shapes breaking
Through the slime. That was with half your mind –
The rest twisted itself into the willow, and wept,
But tears of ephemeral gold.

2 comments:

SBD said...

This stirs my soul so much as to be indescribable~~~~~~simply stunning, the shape of each word.

Dan Dutton said...

Thanks! This thing has a mind of its own, it seems - I'm startled by it myself.