Thick Books of Poetry

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Thick books of poetry are daunting
seemingly taunting from behind their covers
raising phrases that could’ve been yours
but pushed by others
we will sound alike
on a path of self discovery

the knower recognizes the hooks
of convention,
the appearances of things
and gives tokens and homage
when it brings life’s necessities
but doesn’t accept being seen
as a devil or an angel
He is on the level,
a square root of awareness,
with dichotomies grinding

The I who takes hold of the I in self
with limited math skills and a disqualified interest,
branded a bum, and supposes he is, aging, arthritic,
every penny made having been given back
to the economy of an absurd existence
absurdity within absurdity
with the will trying to outlast purposelessness

Art is action
life is poetry
If everyone is given
the same environment
My body, my product, my life
measured and weighed
found critically wanting,
deemed unworthy
by the crowd voices of gods
I am also familiar with the dialogue
of straw friends
whose voices sound
familiar amends

the crowd, too, has a homunculus
in the dark, a center of resistance.
an animal that must come to heel
in order to be of assistance
but must test its boundaries
from time to time.

The reasoner, arbiter of this riddle of anatomy
sprung to awareness as the physical body ages
soul of intelligence
empathically, it rages at the fleeing light

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