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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