It lays bare layers upon layers of skeletons, the letter.
True, cursive is better, with those tails and hooks and slant
The message so much clearer, like graceful dancers
Doing somersaults with the wind. The words sparkle,
Blinding my truth and quenching my thirst.
It’s sex in the woods under the full moon,
The songbirds’ playfulness rendering the quiet
Louder and louder every minute.
That’s what it is reading your letter, your secrets.
So gorgeous, every word hurts and lingers.
It’s an experiment how I choose and assemble words for effect;
An accident how through those words rhymes and images are created;
A miracle they sound as if beneath them were a beautiful message;
Delusion I see melody and posterity in my lyrics,
And I hear my muses singing, as they gyrate, head-bang like Shakespeare’s.
It’s a lie I don’t labor through the night chasing down that sense I still miss.
But why do I write poetry still, even if I have no talent in it?
I’m flummoxed myself just like everyone who has the sanity to think.
Please pardon my answer, as it may offend, ‘cause all I really know is:
If I don’t, either I’ll die, or I’ll kill. Yes, there’s no other way to live!