Thursday, April 06, 2006

The Reluctant Poet

Bucky Gelo
I'm the reluctant poet; there is much to say, yet I sit silently, lips pursed Frozen in time, while thoughts portage the endless labyrinth of the mind at speeds un-calculatable, lost in the infinite network of timelines, past and future consciousness
Surely by now, everything has been said by those with their predictions, theories, die-sections, bye-sections, mandates, criticism, quantinized, sterilized opinions.
Where is my small voice to be heard amid the babble of a civilization so vast, so numerable, so near sighted, so deaf, so greedy, so intelligent, im-moral
So i sit and dream of a communique' a universal language for the masses, a voice to be heard, a voice to speak for all the little voices, frozen, imprisoned, meek, oppressed; a voice longing to be heard, just once above the rest. A small print in the sand for the lame. A word that is yet to be said. A song that is yet to be sung. A wrong yet to be un-wronged. An emotion yet to be felt.
But surely, that's all been said and done; pre-evoked, pre-ordained, reconstituted, pasteuized, scrutinized, fornizied, inquisitized, etched into eternity by the countless speakers, senators, czars, crusaders, minstrels, jounalists, educators, theologians,and governortate. All have had their say; their passages ever-washing over our minds as the ocean tides, eroding deeper the caverns in our brains, streaking across our consciousness, invisible, with speed, spontaneity and voraciousness of nuclear fusion.
I'm the reluctant poet, too cadaverous to cast out the careworn, eroded net into the sea of predatious, sightless, razor-lipped entropic carnivoire. Too content, agencies, recluse. Safe in my apocalyptic space. Warm in my superstructure of isolation. Deaf from the shadows, blind from the tyrannical drums.
Under the blanket of the blood of the sewn lips I hide, ashamed, defused in the odious, unspoken enigma

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