Titles are Things
That chase me down.
Titles are things that chase me down speaking to themselves in search of what goes on what spills into a gorge a booty for duty busting out of the rad had mad sad bad... Shadows hanging at altars peaks and the holy hell swells where beget the kiss at doors of heavens' ruling fists where sorrows cussed masks make lists. Watering Kafka with my plant devolving evolving delusions ripening reign the unbreakable plod the capture the rapture the rising heat the losses too proud for suicide to eat. The never leave factions running into action intercepting proposals for limitation and sleep. Hide behind lemon-aid stand, standing by where kiss your sky anchored to its remorseless beast. A den for rends to coextend, siphon and sleet titles baste in loops and mends and proclamations pulling at ends baste and paste shiver and heat.
This is another magically perplexing poem with hallways down which your words chase me as well, trying to deal with titles (Dr. Underwood, Assessment Guru, Recreation Center Supervisor, Professor) that chopped me up or down to size while Kafka poured water down my pants too and Whitman offered me a grass salad with lilac dressing. Titles carve microscopic pathways inside hallways so millions of us can fit and move at one time, but deep inside we long for the innocence of a lemon aid stand. What I enjoy so much about your work is the authority you give me willingly to dance with the poet on my frail legs as though no one is watching. It’s such a freeing experience. Thanks for this. I’ll be coming back to it for some fizzle.