Guernica /
Jeanne In A Bottle
Is matter a transvestite, one asks.
—Etel
Adnan
I, too, know all
to well
the choke-inducing
sugary-nauseous
feeling
of tripping
inchoately or
incorrectly or
just plain
corruptibly over
every—
single—word— so that
each one tumbles
out such a much
messier mess
than the one previous
had; each &
all previouses of which
would’ve
remained a virgin, innocent,
no bad report,
no scrutiny down from which
to—to—to—scrutinize
& from which spits
a whispery but
bilious splatter; would’ve
remained as it
were in the shadows, but
just as
sprightly clean as a whistle, had—I—
not—opened—my—bigmouth—to—begin—with.
However,
might I simply
add,
perhaps not
exactly in—my—defense,
but it being
now, and now being surely
and most likely
and certainly the best—
the most
appropriate time—if ever there is
or was or is—to
do so, that I do—very—much—love—being,
that I have been
in varying degrees, and most—assuredly—am—now
—a poet.
And, as humble
or not, I grow more comfortably
into this freaky
role every—single—living—day.
In—deed, indeed, and in—clear—matter—of—fact.
With that preceding,
I know in my heart—of—hearts
that if afforded
a nubbin of pencil & an out-fashioned
book of note, or
even a cellblock and a just lick of shale,
that I could,
for—Pete’s—sake(—or—for—
naught—but—my—spindrift—own!),
write a few lines
that would
explain everything so—much—better
than that which
I most—awkwardly—and—spontaneously