Pome Pedestal
There have been so many men to declare,
“so much depends upon the red wheelbarrow”
This is just to say, a man that’s gotta eat the plums
and another on the whys and the wise.
There is one that would rather be a painter…
Was it an apple or a pomegranate? ‘Still Life’ engines.
There have been so many men across time,
in brown study browsing all schools: frost at midnight,
Keats in space, ‘if’, Ulysses, Sailing to Byzantium...
The builder on the stork tower, the negro speaks of rivers!
The soldier and the love song. Pioneers O Pioneers!
There have been so many men bent to the earth,
he was a visitor, a test of poetry sometime during eternity.
Believe, Believe! Sunflower sutra, warm summer sun,
the fat man in the mirror, the ancient heroes, and the pilot,
who steals my good name? Surviving love
to whistler... American proof of immortality,
the southern poet, and his tradition, The Chambered Nautilus.
Break, Break, Break... air and angels at a window.
There have been so many men in their titles,
in their prose, from none of these could I choose a favorite.
There have been so many men with their necessary evil.
A Taliesin in the book of Taliesin rolled up inside my masculine,
rolled up in sin, in a lie. I despise the term necessary evil.
It was spilling, I was wet but refused to go to death.
Refused to even go to the side of the death bed. None of that history!
The need for the rival poet, it was spilling. I was soaking wet.
No transportation, no oar, no marriage to any one man.
One poet to poet entering a myth of wallpaper from the frame of reference,
the window. It was open to the ocean on the dark side of reason.
All the legendary accounts have blown out, now I am down.
I am finished with the contradiction. Finished with trivializing evil.
Threw, through with the poets of patriarchy touching the divine.
I thoroughly reject the concept of a necessary evil.
No more augmentation, no more blaming Eve, apples and trees.
No more misunderstanding banality. No more murderous Cains.
There have been so many men dropping the first letter on evil,
that live a whole life without their feminine root, the tree of life.
Here in these words, reclaim the titles of discord... the rib.
Yeoman of Taliesin, right the wrong, man comes from the woman.
Romance the war, Love money but know I am the original.
No need for a title. I am your whole poem. I am the pome pedestal.
The fleshy receptacle with a tough central core containing the seed,
pulling the tail of the ouroboros from man’s mouth,
I am that old world sparrow, I am that red wheelbarrow...
