Wrestling with Art

In the door frame of my mind
I lined up all my favorite poets
and shot them all, one by one.
I immediately wanted them to live again.

I charged forward. I stumbled
over their slumping, quixotic bodies.
I shoved pens, quills, typewriters, keyboards
into their deranged hands, gesticulating

to them, my body a frantic poltergeist.
Arise! Live! Speak! Some of them,
however, and this really irked me,
had escaped through the door frame.

I don't know where they went.
Other parts of my body?
Some say our mind goes
beyond that door.

The kind of silence just after a funeral
followed, slithering it went, in and out
of my nose. I went running. I lifted weights.
I cleaned the house; several times. My book

shelves stared at me like ferocious,
ill-equipped watchmen. Later that night
I spoke to each one their words
both a solvent and elixir.


This is the 3rd draft of this poem with only a couple of revisions here.




Wrestling with Art (draft #2)

In the door frame of my mind
I lined up all my favorite poets
and shot them all, one by one.

I immediately wanted them to live again.
I charged forward.
I stumbled over their slumping, quixotic bodies.
I shoved pens, quills, typewriters, and keyboards
into their deranged hands, gesticulating to them,
my body a frantic poltergeist,
to arise, to arise, to live.

Some of them had escaped
through the door frame.
I don't know where they went.

The kind of silence just after a funeral
went in and out of my nose.
I went running.
I lifted weights..
I cleaned the house; several times.
My book shelves stared at me
like ferocious, ill-equipped watchmen.

Later that night I spoke to each one
their words both an elixir and solvent.


Originally written on 6/14/15. Some revisions have been made including adding in the third stanza.