Is Poetry Just…

Is poetry
Just
A few short lines forced
To meet as friends? What end
Does itĀ serve, whose cause embrace? Does it build
Or deface? Or both?
Can it taste or be tasted? And are its lines
Wasted on those who won’t hear, or who
Fear a good rhyme
Most of the time? Will it
Drop us a line, give us a sign, that the thought
That once birthed it proved finally
Worth it?

Vacate Shun

Breaking breadĀ amongst my enemies; friends like
These, who needs epiphanies? Parasitic little
Darts fired from parts unknown, striking without
Warning: cloudy day, sunny morning, promise
Without purchase, cause without purpose. A
Tiny little cog, a massive hopeless clog in the
Machinery of quiescence. Is it odd or is it
Essence? That’s the question. Is it shame or
Indigestion, this congestion in my heart,
None yet part indiscriminate, a feeling not so
Intimate as wrath or deadly hatred, a clumsy,
Stumbling waitress with a knife that’s meant for me. But
To the point, the point is this: I crave a moment’s bliss, a
Tendered kiss from someone I don’t know. The one thing
That you sow is the last thing that you reap. Go to sleep, keep those
Eyes tightly closed against the light. Close them tight. Say goodbye, and then

Fly.