In the end there is only fantastic vision—
an end to diversion, and the division
of most likely scenarios.
Where have all the Baudelaire’s gone?
Fuck the cowboys, leave them to their beans.
What we need here is some goddamn fantastic
sock smokin’ madness—
offset by some, Je vous aime follement
When you close your eyes, what do you see?
Who do you see when the lights
in your room
as dark as the streets behind corners on a moonless night,
alone, with nowhere to go?
Can you see the new world you’ve created,
simply by flicking the switch
in your skull marked: DREAM
Do you see the object of your desire?
or just a bed
and absence of corners;
or a dark horse riding out your window
screaming as the light
in it’s eyes
Or are you the one
who sees heaven in hands?
holding your face like a whisper,
the way a tulip’s outer petals hold
as delicate hours
inside it’s fragile
Or is it the old warehouse you see,
down by the docks—
full of dead ghost riders, floating
face-up in a stagnant,
still water pool?
Go ahead. Be brave. Look.
Open your eyes, and see your world
and then tell me you’re not a poet:
and impossibly gone.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 17 2011
Wrote this last-night on a whim…
are we not all romantic poets? no matter how we express our worlds (and no matter what those worlds hold: dark, light, gray, red)…somewhere deep inside of us, there is the latent, or pre-existing, bud of all that we create.
this bud is manifested forward, branching out and into the the world. does this not make us all poets?
this romantic thinks it might.