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Seven Questions for the Martyr/Poet

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What are you trying to say?

What, deep down in your soul,
lurks with the force of a brand new guilt god
living in your refrigerator?

What logical, emotional brainchild kicks in your gut,
screaming and squirming for birth and life and fresher air
than could ever be found in the ancient, shut-up hermitage
of your delinquent mind?

What were you trying to evoke
when you chose that word,
that phrase,
that life away from everyone else?

Was it more than just the picture in your mind
and the one in mine
and the fifty thousand billion ways
in which they’re not the same?

Did you take a drill press to your heart
to share with me the things you did,
in the heat of a mysterious creative passion
you yourself cannot fathom?

But no, surely there must be an explanation
for everything you’ve said or done,
every coughsneezewheeze and this noble suicide…

…or were you really just thinking out loud
to drown out the emotionless drone of the world
because, in the end,
you just couldn’t scream loud enough?





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