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Another pedestrian poem squirms its bluish way tracked and scratched across the blank parchment by my guided quill, to be held in escrow until I share it with the five or six others who will say, "Oooh!" of "Aaaiieeeeeh!" or even "Wow!" and one says, "You're on a roll!" and another, "When are you going to publish?" Needless to say, I am puffed until later, when I re-read the spiral of images flowing toward the Idea or away from it and see the Truth: These pedestrian poems that squirm their bluish way past the rolling ball onto the lined page with that irrepressible way words have of failing in their ultimate purpose: to ameliorate a condition; to soothe pain; to reconfirm a worth; to encourage a faltering; to scold a worthy; to persuade a mass; to store human knowledge; to remind of love. So my "puff" becomes exactly that... an obscurity of ink fog that etches its bluish ray and briefly appears on a monitor and is electronically edited to join the thousand trillion other words generated by chip and binary decision ending up storable as laser print with great ease, retrievable instantly as publication and I see too late the flaw in my thought. Where's my pen? |
