Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Not a Recent Poem

written words are obsolete

before the pen hits the page

before the ink dries on the page,

like spoken words are lies

before the sound dies in the air.

a new white sheet of paper

with no ideas, recites to me all the words

that say nothing about my body

or my city, just forever shielding

lists of words describing trains.

empty metaphors are my motionless lips

and all these terms of

language are merely a motionless pen

poised to write, the choice of passing

the faulty abstraction for the apt.

some call this communication.

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