Words

Words split like nails,
dividing the page into nonsense,
slick adjectives coveting
somber nouns, as shy similes
compete with mellifluous metaphors,
the distinct alliteration spreading
his azure peacock feathers.
It all amounts to crap.

I sit perched
like a green parrot
stewing with anemic fragments
that I ardently desire to coalesce,
propagate, flourish,
into the Tower of Babel
Winged Victory,
or the Statue of David,
or just sit there and rot,
but instead they ruthlessly smirk
and scowl, exasperated
by my wandering eye,
and lackadaisical ability
to produce a profound poem
for wistful eyes to savor,
devour, and digest.
I am willing to admit,
I am lonesome out here
with just my parchment and quill.

As if in a Fellini film,
abstract shapes and metaphysical concepts
dominate, as my milky thoughts ruminate,
and what materializes from a jumble
of prepositional phrases and onomatopoeia
is something much more surprising,
forgiving, and treasured.
The gibberish that flailed
from my pious pen
is now engaged and humming.

Action verb here. No, there. Check.
Modifier before proper noun. Check.
Adverb in my back pocket. Check.

Sometimes, what is agonizingly valid,
is to patiently wait and acquiesce
to the Mafia bosses that govern
the wonderment of poetics,
to settle in and permit
that silver magic to germinate,
take flight, and soar
over broad oceans
and placid valleys,
finally saturating,
aligning, rearranging,
into a form that is substantial.

And when that finally happens,
then it is time
to feed the cat,
make up the bed,
wash the dishes,
take the dog for a walk.

Now, sit down
and prepare yourself
for the  perpetual
editing process.