“: sorry this not that poem”
raised block flower & plant bed.
peonies, gardenias, poinsettias
plus a yellow orb slow rising
over an endless golden scape—
darting through uncluttered space
cardinals, thrashes, sparrows
blue air fragrant with lavender
washing brain matter into virtue.
if only i could pastel alphabets
onto a canvas of thistledown
yes, deceit comes to mind—
.a lie. traitor. turncoat. recreant
backstabber here i would be
gut shanked a million times.
this is not that poem nor am i
that poet to hold your hand
.or. erase knothole screams
blood on a cement floor .or.
suicide is another form of escape
no-no-no—yes-i-do promise
the evil-ugly humans inflict
on each other to their [selves]
how time is malice is death
inflaming pupils with spite
inextinguishable if set free—
forgive state poet #289-128
for not scribbling illusions
of trickery as if timeless hell
could be captured by stanzas
alliteration or slant rhyme—
*
“: .or. this malus thing never to be confused with justice”
nothing symbolic. okay. dark is dark—
cage is cage. hunted & hunter are both
in the literal. make believe & what ifs
do not exist: a lie. nothing cryptic here.
okay. rape is rape. prey must pray. no
minute in the future safe from quiet
insertions of a shank in masking tape.
okay. nothing here infinite: only time
is constant to the merciful & merciless—
there are no allegories to hide behind.
he slit his wrists means he slit his fuckin wrists
okay? there is a cell with one window
just before day. dawn’s early demise
magnifies a dull metal toilet. the cool
water cooling two can sodas. each
wall a slab of soft gray cinderblock, no
posters featuring eroticized women
with an exclusive in black tail. okay.
the wall that slits the light does not
reveal nothing new, ever. the exposé
the changing same: always a holding.
one window offers a gateway. my face
pressed against the window & time
rules this empire. okay. the mind held
hostage by time. mind & body
conjoined twins. the other wall holds
a frame. the frame holds a metal door
to contain utter disbelief. of the visible:
walls are gray not like summer
but darker—yes. there is darkness. okay—
__________________________________
Excerpted from {#289-128}: Poems by Randall Gavin Horton. Copyright © 2020. Reprinted with permission of the publisher, University of Kentucky Press.
