The Irrationality—LB Roland

Papers printed in the morning are read at night,
Stacks of metaphors on definitions of pure reality.
This is what we’ve been culled into doing for now.
And then in the midst of it I saw the words as written
By human hand, not omnipotence embodied, fallible.
Wrong directions can be taken, and grey missteps
Are the rule to the exception. I used to think these poems
Were true proofs to truer truths. Cradling this frail stack
I can see how pitiful their intentions are. They’ve only just
Begun afore they went and did something wrong. How?
How could I be sated with such a life? But what an owner,
That it’s been the same since Euclid’s thonged feet
Opened the way. Jesus take me down to silence.

Good poetry is myopic
It is intoxicated on its own effervescence,
Cheech fumbling at a roach.
Those words are bought and sold for coffee change.
This is because locally the whole world is polished,
All words are true in the immediacy of a moment.
Writing good poetry is easy. And I’ve never been one for ease.

Those rare few that glimpse the whole structure
Who see the components of life’s one fate
Write not of the present or proximity.
With far reaching one comes full back on one’s self.