Some language always suggests
itself.
Whether or not it reflects my inner state,
all my poetry is theft.
Whether or not it reflects my inner state,
all my poetry is theft.
I steal it from myself—
if I have the patience to wait,
some language always suggests itself—
if I have the patience to wait,
some language always suggests itself—
as patterned as Blue
Delft,
as elegant as a beaver hat
(Stagolee shot Billy de Lions for theft
as elegant as a beaver hat
(Stagolee shot Billy de Lions for theft
of his John B. Stetson, with a
cleft
in the brim), as ambiguous as the Cheshire Cat
(you may have noticed, I’m not all there myself).
in the brim), as ambiguous as the Cheshire Cat
(you may have noticed, I’m not all there myself).
Strange cat, sinisterly bereft
of its own visage, bats
in its rabbit-hole, face gone by theft—
just the spooky smile
remaining through a deftof its own visage, bats
in its rabbit-hole, face gone by theft—
legerdemain. Jesus said, “straining at a gnat.”
We can watch language forever suggesting itself.
All poetry is theft.
