I poison my food by forgetting to pray
Letting the day
Or night fall into illusory questioning,
Best when the plinko ball leaves the multiple-choice game and
Rests in the grass
Lest the mass inspires me to
Ask, is remembering or prayer my saving grace?
Engraving space for fallacies to pour in like a mob chasing after the free
Laughter by we,
Who fall short of worthy praise.
Then dazed to Mozart’s 25th piano concerto
(Twenty-fifth. And I toy with wanting to compose,
The trombone goes
As if big ideas are my toys like books on a shelf, and next line the
Oboe, or notes stacked in scales, waiting to be rearranged,
Pianissimo. Piano by the one who comes along and dips her toes into the moon…
Tidal rippling tunes…)
Tired of the world of doughy peace and prenatal pills,
Fatally ill minds and authorship in the hands of the loud and democratic,
Emphatic and tolerant, politically-correct and gymnastically inept.
The thing kept in my mind and lingered like vagrants in an art house,
Eyebrows high when a girl told me people read to escape.
Evading their fate but I had never thought of reading that way, only sleep.
My roots go deep, my trunk broadens, my branches grow out and multiply,
Again I ask why I can’t ride these poetic clouds when a limey’s calling me drunk with friends and baseball and scene and I rap and he goes “That’s fucking beefing!” And they’re at a place and trying to figure it all out. But here I am
My roots go deeper,
And I realize people are people and not
Ideas, or even notes or voices
When starved of the choices they invent in whatever virtual real world.
I’m a believer too and tonight the only thing I can know—from blood to soul—
Is that these cherries taste sweeter when I talk to God.
© 2012, Amaya Engleking