It's filtered through clouds
through cinematic trees
rustling in old black and white
scenes you can't quite frame but you feel a something there
as of angels waiting to be revealed and can't compare it
to any other feeling you could "share with the others
what is this poem about" the lecturer begins
candy sweet taskmaster of the seen
and be seen
with the old familiar stick
pointing to the rules for this
they've just come up with
by scary consensus: today we're
writing haiku about macrome
and you say, collywobbly longing to be at home
catching those flicks, and not this flack
excuse me I'll just go get my hat, my hatpin
I can see Im at the wrong address
and so you step out backwards
holding eye contact with what?
with whom, the voice resumes
its judgement; j'accuse, you confess
(you know the process)
to not being overfond of turning
verbs into nouns and finding it all
actionable
I didn't sign up you say
I'll just be on my way
and the clasp on your patent leather
pocketbook breaks, spilling the contents
(only happens when you're nervous
oh how can I deserve this)
on the floor while everyone roars
too many metaphors
in not so silent reading
of your unmetrical breath
and you feel tucked inside
a nightmare pocket
where you'll have to reside
where the composition of your soul
is openly discussed and decided on
in committee
you don't know who I am am am
your voice echoes down a retrograde canyon
with few wildflowers, a rusted out pail
such a becoming jail...
and you wake up shaking
the poem still iridescent in your head
they wanted to strangle.
from every angle.;
until it was Dead.
mary angela douglas 26 march 2018
through cinematic trees
rustling in old black and white
scenes you can't quite frame but you feel a something there
as of angels waiting to be revealed and can't compare it
to any other feeling you could "share with the others
what is this poem about" the lecturer begins
candy sweet taskmaster of the seen
and be seen
with the old familiar stick
pointing to the rules for this
they've just come up with
by scary consensus: today we're
writing haiku about macrome
and you say, collywobbly longing to be at home
catching those flicks, and not this flack
excuse me I'll just go get my hat, my hatpin
I can see Im at the wrong address
and so you step out backwards
holding eye contact with what?
with whom, the voice resumes
its judgement; j'accuse, you confess
(you know the process)
to not being overfond of turning
verbs into nouns and finding it all
actionable
I didn't sign up you say
I'll just be on my way
and the clasp on your patent leather
pocketbook breaks, spilling the contents
(only happens when you're nervous
oh how can I deserve this)
on the floor while everyone roars
too many metaphors
in not so silent reading
of your unmetrical breath
and you feel tucked inside
a nightmare pocket
where you'll have to reside
where the composition of your soul
is openly discussed and decided on
in committee
you don't know who I am am am
your voice echoes down a retrograde canyon
with few wildflowers, a rusted out pail
such a becoming jail...
and you wake up shaking
the poem still iridescent in your head
they wanted to strangle.
from every angle.;
until it was Dead.
mary angela douglas 26 march 2018
