Saturday, November 28, 2009

last of the old
nothing I forgot

just getting used to a change
of medium and a shift

in self-identity

I am no longer who I was
but these baby steps will send
my aged skull to the sidewalk
if this keeps up ending the line

layer after layer
line upon line
I work toward finding
what my purpose is now

and what I do to manifest it

at least the poet is finally dead
(ignore the form in which I am writing this
it is mere force of habit)
a ghost of his sad pomp lingers in the fingers
itches under the skin
scratching the belly of a twice-poisoned dog
as I forget once and for all
the clownish mental pratfalls
of imitating Artaud
having his art and eating it too
oh at least that is finally dead

now I will sit easily in my own chair
histrionics exhausted
the matter at hand very at hand

how strange to have no self-image now
after years playing an ever lengthening movie in my head
the biography uttered by the narrator

another sound left in its own hearing
as I'm loosed from this theater

I yet a boy straggling after the saturday matinee
in the bright spring sunshine

wondering what can I do next

Content (c) 2008-2009 Philip Milito.

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