This Poem Is a Code

Once upon a time, he said to himself,
She lived on a map of a city,
With a maze of streets. The wall spoke
Sanskrit, the city was like a cluster of villages.
The people spoke to themselves, but not others.
It was morning. It was the rest of the century.
It was everything everyone wanted to know
In the morning newspapers. She was happy.
He was happy. Everyone was what they were told.
We can’t go on like this, they said to themselves.
So they came to America, whatever that was.
But it was only the beginning of the story.

The other half was the portrait of the artist
As a short story writer and the memory
Of the man who made imagination popular.
Words and phrases and white walls.
Cracks in the ceiling and the blinds down.
An alien in our home, reminding us to move.
Wires and windows and waiting for the coffee.
The assemblage of a life from discontinuous moments.
Electricity in my fingers and gaps in my brain.
The song came in the morning and stayed all day.
With the fear of stopping at the next blank space.

The short way to a mystery is from what you think you know.
Gathering syllables for promises repairs laughter.
The phrase on the wall is: ‘that you are’.
The writer: Edgar Allen Poe. Edgar Allen Poe.
The memory, shot in New York City. Coffee is for beginning.
What can I say to the window? What can I do for the day?
Will it stay empty, get full? The day is a sneeze. I’ve seen the movie.
I do remember how it ends. The day is not a motion picture...
It won’t begin again.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 04/18/2009 01:31PM by petersz.

Peter, I'm dumbstruck and proud to be on a site
with somone who can create such artistry. No more
need be said. tom

Tom,

Thanks for reading. Thanks for commenting. Thanks for the lavish praise.

Peter

Peter, this is good one. Much to ponder and reflect upon here.

Les

Les,

Thanks for visiting and commenting. I hope all is going smoothly for you.

cheers,

Peter