The Word Poem by Kevin Patrick

The word is mute and covered in scars
It lies hidden and always seen
By strangers and other lovers
Residents in occupied exile
Walking slowly on train tracks
Backwards doing hand stands
Desperately seeking to be heard
Like a dream that's on dialysis
I stand claustrophobically
Reaching into my pockets
And find only holes
Where the word slips away
Clinging to my aorta
Seeking resurrection
My only map is
A compass of doubt
That is pointing due south
Where the dead men go to Mexico
Perhaps I'll stop by New Orleans
And catch a Latte with a Chubacabra
Playing a game of backgammon
with a stuttering penguin
Debating the lost art of metaphysics
Reducing ourselves to abstract forms
Agents of senseless essence
My owe my wasn't that waitress a Goddess
Do you think she moans?
When you tickle toes?
Or maybe she shrugs
When you rub down her elbows
I like to think she wants me
Just as I like to think that the sun is warm
And not the moon in disguise
Here I walk on the sleeping back roads
Somewhere between Tucson and el passo
Crickets chant a ceaseless ditty
As I wonder a sea of sand
Hoping the road will return a reply
But it laughs gleefully as the tarmac burns
My baring feet with branded scars
While I search mutely on
Speaking for the missing word
But never to be heard