Barlot ...

This Poem Was Never Written - Poem by Barlot ...

An illusion of a single cell-
Prison cells with doors you can't open
And amentities only spoken-
Never tangible.
Administration: tyrannical
Justified with generic ink.
They tell me to think about their thoughts
But creativity can't be stolen
Nor bought for support of Bangladeshi labor.
If an American child is crying-they save her
But outside these troop boundaries
They'll say it doesn't matter-
'Matter cannot be created nor destroyed.
So if one is not employed by a US agency-
They don't matter, aren't matter
And can be destroyed overseas
As a way to pass my new policy.'
Well I'll be damned to write these words
Absurdity is blank as anything-
Blank as the bills in Congress
Blank as the list of heroes and heroins
And blank as my stare as I'm trying to comprehend-
Trying to understand why I'm here
And there but nowhere for certain
And somewhere behind a new Iron Curtain
Where thoughts are swept under an Aluminum rug
And decorated in fine Elemental decor
But once more...
Twice more...
A rearrangement will occur-
In the future of this fine brainwave,
This thought process that jump drives can't save.
Fleeting, fleeting memory
Defined by branches of Chemistry-
Organic, Theoretical, Physical, Fake!
Rape my mind with your textbooks
And drag me from the lake of all I've dropped-
Everything but the beat.
But now I sit in a hard plastic seat
With my legs folded to my chin-
The fetal position I acquire when I feel in defense of ideas.
I swear I get it-
They don't know.
22 days until I go
And arrive simultaneously.
The moment is a second, minute, hour
The moment is me.
I am the water Stalin drinks
This poem is blank.

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Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Poem Edited: Friday, January 28, 2011

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