derived from a photo by ann engelman
DANCES WITH BUTTER KNIVES
by Charles P. Ries
They lost me in complexity.
The tribal leaders of poesy read on:
The obsidian blade cuts fog blue
blue whale, blue whale bone, blue sky,
. blue island
The obsidian blade cuts ragged edges
along riverbanks, in the outline
of drifting cotton thoughts.
Too many edges for me. Poets lost in
technique become dull butter knives.
Their spontaneity has turned into yawning
Soft hushed voices from the female readers.
Soft hushed voices from male readers.
Caressing their butter edged words.
I close my eyes. I follow them closely.
I open my eyes. I give them my all.
I fall asleep. I dream and see their words
wearing lead wings. Bad shoes to dance in.
I wonder, where’s their clown prince? The fool who
works at the car wash? The one who skipped his
PhD in literature and makes me feel lighter after I
bathe in his unwashed words.
~ first published by Concrete Meat Press