[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM

  • From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sun, 21 May 2006 12:17:36 -0500


Like Will of old, I sometimes curse my fate 
wishing me like to one more rich 
in any talent -- any art, any scope --
but mostly in the ability 
to hold a word
to just one meaning.

Every time I start to think,
my words,
the very bricks of my argument
with which I to build 
the ineluctable wall 
of closely reasoned reason,
all get spongy, 
start absorbing meanings
I've never meant before,
changing shape into mockeries of me.

Oh, my closely reasoned walls,
how you fall like Jericho's
to the horns of ambiguity.
Men more keenly seeing 
keep their words in line,
like military marching.
Were I only like them,
then might I not my self go despising.
"Doth List exact clear thinking of muddy minds?"
I fondly ask,
But laziness to prevent that murmur soon replies:
(yeah, yeah, I know that's Milton)
"Do you think it matters to Paris Hilton
how closely reasoned your lack of money is?"
Alas, she's not interested 
in Plato or NATO or even Play Dough,
which is the only kind of dough you have, Jack.

Well, OK, then.

Mike Geary

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