Featured Poem Out Loud: High Oblivion

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High Oblivion

Your poems do not matter.
Not at all. Not in the least.
Not for the least is there a crumbling.
This is not the sacred conflagration.
This is not the cleansing.
The fumes are poisonous.

Your figures are pillars of ash.
A precarious mime of trees
composing a forest of shapes
that bloom-off in the wind
threshing in a smoke a puff
the mimicry of seed.
That’s all.
That’s it.

You could claim
You are carrying the fire.
Winnowing the chafe.
But then you would burn into more than a blackened, sticky road –
The one that traverses
up high
into the blackened hills.
You sing a song that melts the black tar
searing itself to the bottom of a climbing traveler’s feet.
That’s all.
That’s it.

So compose your artistry
poised at the rim of the smoldering Basalt Lick.
If you think its forms matter,
you are lean
and addled
and desperately
fired up.

That’s all.
That’s it.

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