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.