Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Ye Gods!



 
.
Ye gods, there’s no time! ‘It’s a figment, a not,’
ran the plot of the play in my head. Tossed me right
out of my bed. ‘Instead all we’ve got steaming out
of the pot is a lot of invincible rhyme,’ they said.
.
It turns out the cosmos evinces one fashion upon
which the whole business rolls – a dash and a curve
and a flash and a swerve which begat what begat us:
our rhythm and verve. Rhyme, not time. The pure
.
rhyme that you’re, and the rhyme that I’m. Our
queries are these: Please! Does anyone have
the right rhyme? What rhyme do we get into bed?
What rhyme of the day or the night will we die?
.
It’s about rhyme we knew. We now got the clue 
that rhyme waits for no woman or man: we’re 
rushed into lissome departures: to watch archers
of tongue-in-cheek chic the way Emily Dickinson’s 
.
fits fix her feats in a pique that permit us a peek into
genius – where would we see so much heterogeneous 
bliss of audacity anywhere other than in the dark
lark of the mother of her heart’s inscrutable art?
.
But to make it our own in a song not a groan –
that’s what we’re roaming the cosmos to find –
that’s the task here in the gloaming. No fiction
of time anymore: now it’s all simultaneity – the sea
.
to the shore, an orgy galore of the assonant word –
often absurd, sometimes sublime, or a viable crime
out of hell in the grime of an untended zoo of the fun
stuff in you – there are rhymes for that, too:
.
amid all of the rest of the worst and the best
of the profligate need to make verse – eternally
busting our asses with assonance without which
we would not be. And oh dear, as you see, it appears
.
a great deal of the fate of the Cosmos has fallen
to me. But soon, I am told, I’ll be granted asylum.
Where I’ll strive to supply ‘em with rhymes such as
“phylum” and “xylum”: rhymes that will keep us alive.




.

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