To A Crackpot

I still have a lot of text files from when I was in college and even high school, sequentially copied from floppy to floppy to hard drive to hard drive over the decades. I used to write poems and they were not good and neither is this one, but to my surprise it had some lines in it that I remembered but did not remember that I wrote myself. What was I doing with the line breaks though? I am pretty sure this would have been written in my junior year of college, maybe spring of 1992. Around this same time I submitted a short story to a magazine and the editor wrote back to me saying “free-floating anxiety cannot be what drives a narrative,” but I disagreed, obviously.

To a Crackpot

He eschews the shoulders
of giants. He chooses instead
the company of thin men, coffee-stained,
stooped with knowledge. They huddle
on the sidewalk, nodding, like crows
or rabbis. He speaks:
the world is hollow and we live
on the inside. (Murmurs of assent.) There
is a hole at the top where the water runs in. The sun
is smaller than my hand, and the stars
are smaller than the sun.

A woman walks by, drawing
his eye. She has no idea. Beneath their feet,
out in the dark, secret engines. The Earth turns like milk.

Tagged

2 thoughts on “To A Crackpot

  1. Richard says:

    Same, but 1982, and lost. Lost. LOST! Thank God.

    We are the hollow men/earth,
    Black milk/sun,
    There is a hole where the (no, I cannot speak of it)
    But the universe wheels and wheels, unknowing, unknowable, without cause, without reason, without us.

    ALAS!

  2. Jon Awbrey says:

    Peerage

    there’s no presumption in peer,
    much less peremptory emptiness,
    to whom can crack a dictionary.
    but who presumes to umpireship,
    is a nonpeer captain of umpiry.
    crack this code, crack a smile,
    and put the e bak in crackpoet.

    thus spake 0*
    10 Dec 2005

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