Mar 18, 2010

Secret/Poet


As an adolescent,
I learned the art of poet/secret;
I would climb into the bedroom closet on all fours, enough space between the smelly, discarded shoes laces to
stretch out my body; I would somehow find comfort, if that is what you’d call it, more like respite, a kind of shelter

              to be with my secrets,
              stowed away porno’
O              masturbation never was so great as
              the closeted days,
shielded from reality,
              the ceiling gathered immense freedom
              around its enclosed haunches and
              I had secrets to bare, to the wooden
              old filing cabinet stuck, where I stowed
              my poetry, my scribbles — under
              hanging sports coats and sweaters,
              secrets being such a burden —
              they had to go somewhere,
              born from my self-imposed compulsion to translate suffering into poetry —

Poetry is couched in metaphor but never becomes what it was,
like a closet,
it still remains closed,
like a secret it is never meant to be shared.

              To put into words something about
              myself that I am unable to transcend
              is a secret/poetry like a poet makes,
              for isn’t that what the poet does?
              reveal secrets,
              lay bare the state of affairs?
the poet in me, crashes into state of affairs, crashes into a secret,
to lay bare.

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