When poetic compression of meaning
Passes a quantum threshold
(The Blanck Length?)
Stay perfectly still.
At your motionless* center
You travel through time.
The ghost in the words
The voice in the signs
The figure in the scribbles
That hides between the lines
The French and Japanese pass laws
To try to keep words out
While wanton English tempts words in
Like some old hooker on History Street.
The French eat their words
Say it in French with orotund vowels
And backthroat rolling 'r's
Les Francais mangent leur mots
Freed from focus thoughts slide by
A swift and dark flowing river
White waters eddies and whirlpools
A poet plucks treasures from the stream
Shrink wrapped for freshness in telomere tails -
Genes that is, lifestuff -
Tails that tear with each genesplit until they’re gone,
The ideal audience size for a poet is one.
Direct from me to you. No watchers.
Whispering together in the privacy of our minds.
When poems are performed therefore
A little boy comes home from school and asks his father what “frugal” means.
“Well” says his father “it means to save”.
The next day the little boy comes home from school all excited
“Dad, we were told such a good story today in class