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 eyes, 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

formations.

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