Poetry

30.

I’ve got to plan
my words in advance,
’cause a poem a day
makes more pressure than I enjoy.

I’m not gonna say too much,
but I’ve got at least
one map in the works,
and it’ll lead us right
into the future.

I’m some kind of fucking
new age explorer,
never mind that I almost wrote
“conquistador”
before I vomited in my mental mouth a bit
and watched my shame dribble down the folds in my brain.

There’s just something unbearably grotesque
about semi-chunky liquids,
and semi-chunky anything for that matter –
it’s all too funky,
and I never thought I’d say that.

Now that I’ve thought it, though,
the idea makes a ton of sense.
I’m sad it doesn’t make cents,
and it’s all right that it doesn’t make scents.

Will those lines land when they’re spoken,
not read?
I sure hope so.
Will these lines lend credence
when they’re red,
unedited?
Will they lead readers to avoid lead,
even if they’re led to believe
that it’s fine for a leaf to leave?

Where was I going?
Oh, nowhere at all.
I may have mapped out some upcoming pieces,
but here’s my secret:
all my maps
are merely
outlines.
There’s no X marking any spots,
and every step I tread
is under no obligation to the end.
The devil’s in the details,
and these hinterlands are now a holy place.
So come, walk with me,
and let’s be cartographers
together.

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