Kite Dreams
ink
###
The typewriter and the scroll,
The head of a letter,
The little words that spring
From a source, how they arrange
Themselves in the lexicon well
Letting only a pail fill, in sequence.
How the mind unscrambles
The knots, the paper goes
Down a notch, the deafening silence,
The knocking letter heads,
The bell ringing at a line’s terminal,
The little pat, to start a new line,
How every word is an epiphany,
How every ampersand, full stop
Or semi colon, makes an elaboration,
Or a pause. While on the 14th line you stop
Remembering Shakespeare, the ending,
The tip of Matterhorn, summoning
Your intuition, and a streak
Of electricity.
 
The one for the road,
Is what carves out, the legend,
You pluck words from thin air,
And thicken it with black ink,
The junta of the third eye,
Punts of words, the instinctive
Embellishments, the crusade
Every poem is. The inbred
Silence, that fertilizers a mind,
Uprooting the harvests. 
How when all is done, you glean the field,
The final edit, picking the letters
And the punctuation carefully,
Not letting the words,
Drift to the chaos, of syntactical entropy,
The final view, going from head
To toe, checking out, from
The best seat of an open pavilion,
Or an opera seat.
 
The places the third eye travels to,
Without knowing what vessel took us there.
The silence drifts in, as the poet
Sighs, an exclamation of regret
That its all over. While beauty
Lies in the embryonic, the new niche
That beauty pollinated, to awaken us
From a protracted trance,
Knowing destiny is idiomatic, while beauty is rarely ad-hoc,
Only elusively raw, and still bona fide,
With soul-stirring simplicity and ubiquitous metaphor,
While a line at the end, gives
A twist, a place you’ve never
Been to, a moment of introspection, how one
Line is enough for a new perspective.
That epiphany startles you;
Like the day you found out, that
A creature as ugly as a crow,
Can be monogamous.
 
A poem is mostly about the last line,
The oomph factor, how you don’t
Just incubate words, you exonerate
Them on a typewriter. The gift
Of a poem is how little you know
About the ending. It’s like how
Different your wife looks in a corset,
Compared to a sports bra.
How little did we care, that Romeo
Saw Juliet in a corset every night.
Life I guess, is about surprises.
How we are men, in a different era,
Learning that Shakespeare’s works,
Were like lace corsets, over which,
Perched was a different style of beauty,
The type that never allowed,
Words to sag.
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