Published September 17, 2008
A muttering, dusty figure,
slumped forward on the sidewalk.
Where others quicken pace,
afraid you'll rape them
or ask for money,
I pause a moment
to place my patent-leather briefcase down and
check my Cartier wristwatch.
I look at you with your
manic, oscillating eyes and
toothless mouth leaking crack residue to the
ground below.
Perhaps in some trans-dimensional world
you stand above other men,
a philosopher-God whose
schizophrenic ravings are
recorded as Holy sermon.
Others stammer and tremble,
awed by your vast, unknowable intellect,
which is unjustly vilified in this civilized world.
But most likely not.
I move along,
suddenly fearful that I might be stabbed and robbed.
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140,852 Literary Works • 673,694 Reviews
Bob,
I'm not sure this is poetry. It seems more like a prolonged aphorism than a sustained engagement with metaphor, metonymy, etc. It's a group of descriptions that don't rise above their material ground: there's no revelatory moment when the whole thing turns itself over, no point where deeper inquiry proves rewarding (at least, not to me).
It strikes more as a snapshot of the current American ideo-political stance--"Ah, yes, I 'know' you are not really to be feared - and indeed you might well have the potential to be a truly beautiful soul - but nevertheless...[I don't believe it]."
I'd suggest taking the idea above the level of direct embodiment in an experience, since it simply pronounces the rise of a belief rather than evoking it (and that's the real purpose of poetry, isn't it? to evoke, not to declare or interrogate...).
Take care,
Brad
it's not bad but it's kinda hard to understand...big words....gah not every one knows what those mean